


Redemption

by AokiMisa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female Harry Potter, Good Albus Dumbledore, Good Harry Potter, M/M, not too evil Dursleys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AokiMisa/pseuds/AokiMisa
Summary: What if Harry was born a girl, Harriet?What if Snape saw her more of a child of Lily but not James?What if fate pushes them together, Harriet to find a mentor/partner who understands her pain and guides her on her path, Snape to find a love who can redeem him and show him he deserves happiness?The story begins with Harriet's first year at Hogwarts.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Sirus Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 99





	1. The First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Amateur writer here mainly writing for the first time to suffice her own happiness. I wanted to explore the options of Harry being a girl (Harriet) and I will try to stick to main plots in general, at least for the first year. Let's just say I haven't quite planned out the rest of the years yet loll :)  
> The rest of the characters are pretty much going to remain in character, so there probably won't be character bashing (or maybe just a bit.)  
> I'm open to suggestions, and anyone awesome enough to read my work and leave me a comment will make me very happy indeed!  
> Also huge shout out of appreciation to Ayesha who proofreads all my chapters before posting; her suggestions and ideas are truly invaluable.  
> Lots of love to everyone~

In secret we met---

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?---

With silence and tears.

**_\-----------When We Two Parted_** , Lord Byron

“Severus, my boy,” the phoenix patronus was perched on his window sill — what was the bloody bird doing here at this hour? — Severus wondered to himself. He was brewing a batch of pain potions at the specific request of Pomfrey; she could have easily purchased them on the market, but no, she had stated, she trusted only his skills and no one else’s to produce the fine quality of the potion. School would start again in a few weeks, and no doubt this was for the little fools who always managed to get themselves injured in every way.

He put down his stirring rod and cast a stabling charm on the potion. The morning was still very young, but he was accustomed to sleeping only a few hours each night.

“Miss Potter has disappeared from her temporary residence at Railview Hotel. I’m afraid the urgency of the situation doesn’t allow me to explain more, but please find her and take her back to her family, will you?”

Severus knew the hotel Dumbledore informed him about, it was so bleary and desolate he wondered why anyone but himself would grace their presence upon that hotel. What was the girl doing there?

He also secretly dreaded seeing the girl. It had been there with him in his moments of vulnerability as he collapsed with Lily’s body in his arms; bright green eyes exactly like her’s, reminding him of what he had lost. But he didn’t have time for that now, if the girl had run into some kind of danger, he had to protect it. It was the last of Lily that was left. So Severus took all his despair, sadness, hatred and crammed them into a tight little box to be stuffed deep down in his heart—better to be never opened—and slipped back into his emotionless cover as he opened the door and apparated.

Right now, he was only a man on an order.

Happily, the job was easy enough to not sour off his already poor mood. Given the early time and a stroke of luck, human activity was limited, and a flashback spell aimed at the front doors of the hotel revealed the ghostly outline of three men and a small girl sprinting off into the distance. After that, it was simply following the trail. Providing that the girl wasn’t dead when he found her. A tiny dark part of him that he hated wished so.

—————————————————

An hour ago.

Harriet sat on the window sill of the gloomy room, looking down at the passing cars as Dudley snored in the bed next to her. She couldn’t sleep. It was terrible sharing a room with Dudley, but that was not what kept her up. Her bare skinny legs dangled in the air as she absentmindedly wriggled her toes, thinking about all that has passed. That letter. Her name was written on it along with such intimate detail for one second she had thought there was an omniscient presence watching over her all along. But why hadn’t they intervened when she was picked up and stuffed back into the cupboard without her letter? Why not just deliver the letter to her personally?

Personally. A sudden flash of idea hit her so hard she almost grinned with glee. That’s it. Now that she wasn’t locked up, she would sneak out and stop the mailman before he delivered the mail to the hotel. Uncle Vernon wouldn’t embarrass himself to sleep at the door of the hotel. The envelope didn't look very thick, so she could probably finish reading it quickly then head back up. Plus, Dudley slept like a pig. He was even snoring like one. Perhaps Harriet would be able to even sneak back in without waking him. Even if the Dursley's caught her afterwards, they can’t take away her knowledge of the contents.

Sliding down the window sill, Harriet tiptoed across the room and gently opened the door. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were sleeping in the room opposite, and Harriet doubted they could hear her creeping across the hall. Making her way down to the ground floor of the hotel, the front desk agent looked sleepily at her and decided to ignore her as Harriet pushed open the front door. All for the better. She has never been to Cokeworth, but she was pretty sure this place wasn’t exactly filled with posh nosy neighbors who would call the police if they were missing a rose from the front garden.

Despite being summer, the harsh grey dawn light brought a shiver to Harriet’s bones. She was still shoeless (having abandoned them for fear of making sound), dressed in one of Dudley’s hideous overlarge Tees, and skimpy shorts.

Choosing a comfortable looking place on the curb outside the hotel’s doors, Harriet sat down to wait. She didn’t have a watch, but experience told her it was probably close to 6 o’clock, seeing how the sun hasn’t hit the horizon yet.

At least 20 minutes had happened before anything significant happened. Harriet suddenly heard whistling and laughter, and she spun around to look. Three ragged-looking young men, looking very drunk and tottering on their feet, had emerged from the hotel and were standing behind her. Harriet tensed.

The middle man leered. “Oi, you! Pretty homeless girl eh?”

“Come play with papa! Papa here will show you some good tricks.” The man on the right laughed raspingly, and lunged forward trying to grab Harry.

With reflex and speed perfected in years of being chased by Dudley and his gang, Harriet jumped up and bolted from the sidewalk, avoiding the man’s hand barely. This seemed to excite the men endlessly, as they instantly took after Harriet, moving surprisingly fast for drunk people.

Sprinting along the road, Harriet turned into a neighborhood that looked as equally dreary as the hotel. There would be plenty of dark alleyways and nooks for her to hide. Making sure the men were straight behind her, she faked a right turn as she immediately skidded to a halt and jumped into a patch of bushes behind a trash can.

Then she stopped moving, holding her breath silently. The footsteps passed by her followed by the guffawing of the men. They were gone. Apparently they weren’t too smart either, just like Dudley.

But now Harriet was lost. She had no idea where he was. She decided to sit down and take a breather first.

—————————————————

“Get up.” The dark-haired man commanded, glowering down at the small girl cowering in the bushes from a standing position.

Harriet looked at him incredulously. Who was this stranger? And did he just appear from thin air, or was the tickling lights of dawn playing a trick on her eyes? Seeing that he was wearing all black, it could have very well been the case. She blinked.

When the girl had not obeyed his commands, Snape sighed, cursing inwardly at the stubbornness of Potters, and reached down to tug on the girl’s arm. The girl shied away from him, an instant light of mistrust coming into her eyes. Lily’s eyes. Emerald green, opened wide and full of shock. The young baby age masked the prominent features of James Potter (though the messy hair was definitely there), and Snape found himself hating the girl less than he had imagined.

“I will not hurt you. Now, stand up.” Snape said, a tad softer.

Harriet stood up slowly, trying not to wince as she now felt the brambles cutting into her feet. Her eyes took in the man’s weird appearance. Even though it was late of July and the sweltering heat was enough to make anyone drenched in their own sweat, this man was wrapped from head to toe in black. Harriet couldn’t even see his neck, cuffed up in some sort of high-necked black shirt.

This is very very strange, and she prepared to bolt if something went wrong.

“You’re hurt.” The man observed. Looking down at Harriet’s bare feet, his face turned into a scowl as he pulled out a black wood stick and muttered, “Episkey.”

Harriet immediately felt the pain subsiding. What had just happened? She opened her mouth to ask—

“Expecto Patronum.” A beautiful silver doe filled with starlight burst forth from the black stick the man was holding, and Harriet made a small gasp of surprise. Is this magic?

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hated that word. She still remembered Uncle Vernon’s pig-liver colored face sticking up into her’s, shaking his fist and raging at her when she had suggested a magical motorbike flying in her dreams. But try as she might, even to avoid a beating from Uncle Vernon, she could not stop strange things happening around her. But this has to be the strangest day yet.

“A message to Albus Dumbledore,” the stranger said to the doe, “Headmaster, I have found your precious girl. Per your request, I shall be taking her back.” The doe galloped away, leaving glittering dust in its wake.

Amidst all the confusion and shock, the thought that something this beautiful (perhaps the most beautiful thing she has seen in her entire life so far) couldn’t have been produced by a dark person, suddenly popped into Harriet’s mind.

“No I don’t want to go back to my relatives. Not until at least I have my letter. There was a letter addressed to me, and I—I feel I have to read it.” Catching her chance, Harriet quickly said. Why was she explaining herself to this man?

So that was why she was out, Snape thought.

Then before the man could turn a deadly glare upon her, “Are…are you a magician?” Harriet asked, remembering the TV program Dudley sometimes watched where a man in a suit would pull a rabbit out of a top hat. This man before her looked nothing like the man on the tele, though.

The man stared at her, and Harriet could see that his eyes were also a whirlpool of black that matched the rest of his clothes.

Snape took a closer look at the small girl standing in the cold grey light. He was so angry, at her stupidity for putting herself in such risk, at Dumbledore for having given him such a complicated mission, at himself for having made such grievous errors all those years ago. The burden of the past dragged painfully on him—there were so many things he wanted to do—but in this moment, she was simply a small child in need of his help, unaware and untainted by the dark fingers of life.

He felt his rage dying away. Something whispered in his mind as another image of a small, cowering boy dressed in his mother’s old blouse was pushed to the front. He shook it away, but he had seen the similarity. The small stature. The ill fitting clothes. The way she shied away when he had tried to touch her. Petunia. Of course. How could he forget and pretend that she would love Lily’s child, when she had spurned Lily herself so? But as the child stared back at him, he reminded himself this was no time to digress, and once again, he threw his thoughts into that dark little box already crammed full of emotions.

“The proper term is a wizard.” Snape finally said, the whirlpool now a pan of dead water, void of all emotion. “Now come with me. I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter.”

Pulling out of shock, a thousand questions rushed through Harriet’s head as she started following the man. She contemplated, then decided to let her questions spill in a rush, “Am I also a wizard? Do you know me? I’ve had strange things happening to me since—”

“Miss Potter. I have no wishes to be answering your no doubt vast amount of questions.” The man said in a low tone Harriet could not interpret. She was so shocked she didn’t even register the fact that the man had called her by her name. “I assume the letter you have previously mentioned will contain most of your answers.”

He then grabbed Harriet’s arm forcefully before the small girl could react. With a sudden crack, Harriet felt herself as if squeezed through a tight tube—she couldn’t breathe—walls of air had suddenly turned to stone crushing her ribs—and then it was over. The ground was rushing up and she was choking, so she grabbed the nearest support next to her, which happened to be the man’s arm, and hang on for dear life. So she wasn’t dreaming when the man had appeared out of thin air.

Finally feeling her heart slowing to a normal rate, Harriet trusted herself to slowly release the stranger’s arm. She turned to see the man who had apparently taken her back. He was already straightening himself, ready to leave, so Harriet hurriedly said: “Wait! I don’t even know your name!”

“Severus Snape.” Seeing the girl was quite alright now and capable of making her way back into the hotel, with another sharp crack, Snape disappeared in a swirl of black, leaving Harriet standing alone on the pavement.

—————————————————

Slipping past his wards on the door, Snape found himself back in his sullen house at Spinner’s End. The place was shabby and draped in dark colors, inches of soot gathering in mantelpiece, the living room spare with only a few pieces of furniture.

He sat down in the couch, closing his eyes tiredly. Sometimes he wished this would all go away. That he hadn’t called Lily a mudblood, that he hadn’t joined the Dark Lord in pursuit of some whimsical notion of power and recognition, that he could go live in a small cottage somewhere at the end of the world where he could do whatever he please. But his past life had been faced with critical turn points, and now he was simply paying his debt to all those wrong choices he had made at those points.

He had pretended that he didn’t care. But now that he has seen the girl, he couldn’t. He could still feel the heat of her small hand burning through his clothes into the small of his arm when she had grasped him after apparition, right over the place where his dark mark presided.

So much pain—the inky tendrils appearing on his skin—but he wouldn’t cry because he was goddamn proud

Standing up, he patted his robes and smoothed down nonexistent winkles. “Headmaster’s office,” He barked, throwing a handful of floo into the mantel. The fire blazed a brilliant green, indicating access, and he stepped into the flames.

Emerging from the fireplace, a scan across the room told him Dumbledore was not here. Where could the old man have gone at this hour? But the headmaster had always been so secretive about everything Severus doubted if anyone ever really knew anything about Dumbledore. Eleven years ago, he had offered up his heart and soul to the man, but still at times he felt he had not even breached the first layer of mystery Albus Dumbledore has wrapped around himself in all those years.

With a soft pop, Albus appeared in the office. He was wearing garish midnight blue robes with mother of pearl pieces clinging to the hems. They reflected light and cast little rainbows in every angle following Dumbledore’s movements as he strolled over to his Headmaster’s chair and comfortably arranged himself in it. Severus winced and hoped he was blind.

“My dear boy,” Dumbledore began in that mild, unsurprised tone he always had, “I hope everything has gone quite well?”

Severus was quite sure Dumbledore somehow already knew the girl was safely back with her family. He scoffed.

“Ah, Severus, you know I always hope for the best.” Dumbledore smiled, a small twinkle appearing in his blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles.

“I can hardly say the same for the girl,” Severus began. “She was in no fit condition when I caught her. What were you thinking, putting her in that family? Petunia, I told you before—she could never love the girl—it would not surprise me if she regularly starved her or called her a freak, Merlin knows! Why didn’t you take care of her? Or whoever of your precious little lair of lions—anyone—anyone could have done a better job!”

“Now now, Severus,” Dumbledore sat back and pushed his fingers together, the previous spark of mirth gone. “You know that Miss Potter has to stay with her family for protection. Although it pains me to say so, but Miss Potter must remain there.”

Severus always felt himself humbled in front of the old man. Emotional outbursts did not affect Albus Dumbledore. He always remained calm when all others stormed beside him, and for all these years, Severus could count with one hand how many times Albus Dumbledore had actually become enraged. It made him in comparison feel like a young boy (although he was indeed very young compared to Dumbledore) crying when someone took his sweets away, naive and stupid.

Severus checked his temper.

“A letter, a simple letter could have sufficed.” He breathed sallowly through his nose, forcing his words out at a normal speed. “A threat, or if that’s too evil for you, a bag of gold I’m sure would have Petunia either scared out of her wits or at least unwilling to purposely mistreat Miss Potter.”

For the first time, Severus thought he saw something similar to remorse appear in Dumbledore’s eyes.

Dumbledore sighed.

“Flawed, I admit I was. I did not expect Petunia to stoop so low to the point of mistreating her only sister’s remaining child.”

Lily. Severus felt his heart twinge with pain. But now they were discussing Miss Potter.

Dumbledore paused then said, “I will see what can be done.” Then in a merrier disposition, “how are class preparations coming along, Severus?”

“Unless the students became any smarter, I blatantly refuse to change anything about my teaching.” Severus hated the way Dumbledore changed the subject, but the old man had said it in such a tone that suggested Severus had better not continue to push him on this matter.

“Is there anything else you wish to discuss with me, Headmaster? I do have a boiling cauldron awaiting my disposition.”

“No, I will trouble you no more. Thank you, my boy.” The headmaster waved his hand, signifying that he was done with this conversation and Severus should get going.

Stepping into the mantle, Severus thought he saw Dumbledore sag in his chair a little bit, looking tired as he was swallowed up by the green flames.


	2. Harriet — Yer a witch

There are more things in heaven and earth than you've ever dreamed of, Horatio.

—-— **_Hamlet_** (1.5.167-8), Hamlet to Horatio.

Despite failing spectacularly in her planning to retrieve her letter, Harriet did eventually get it, even though it had taken more shouting from Uncle Vernon after catching her trying to sneak back to her room, another trip to an isolated island, and a huge giant named Hagrid to do it. Hagrid was very nice, arriving with her first birthday cake ever and delicious roast sausages. Hagrid had also told her she was a witch, and that her mom and dad (judging by Hagrid’s furious reaction) hadn’t died in a car crash at all.

In fact, there had been so much information, lying in the hut under Hagrid’s huge coat which smelled of burnt wood and something alive, Harriet could not sleep as her brain tried to process it all.

In the dark, she closed her eyes and decided to make a list of things she knew and did not know. She had found the skill of making lists extremely helpful in the past, as Aunt Petunia always showered her with so much tasks to be done in a day, she was forced to plan out her schedule efficiently or risk going to bed with no dinner.

So.

Number 1. Her parents were good people. Murdered by this Voldemort. But she had survived somehow, escaping with only her scar.

Number 2. She was a witch with magic, like her mom and dad. She always knew there was something different about her—after all you can’t really explain jumping off a roof without a scratch or vanishing the glass at the zoo with science— but it was good to know that there were others like her out there.

Number 3. She was going to the magic school of Hogwarts, and there were things to buy. But she didn’t have any money. Did they have banks with loans in the magic world? She could sell herself into a lifetime of servitude to anyone who cared enough, she reckoned, to pay for the tuition, anything to be away from the horrible Dursley’s. And where on earth would she get magic textbooks? Maybe Hagrid could help with that.

Number 4. That reminded her. There were nice, cheery people in the wizard world too. Apparently not all people were scary and commanding like the wizard, Snape, who picked her up yesterday.

Number 5. Hagrid had come to give her letter on Headmaster Dumbledore’s command, so someone out there actually cared. Perhaps she could considering seeking out their help.

Number 6. She was also famous. Not that fame helped her at all. If she truly was that important, why had no one checked on her in the past 11 years? She made a mental note to dig deeper into this.

There were definitely more important things, but now finally Harriet’s body has caught up with all the commotion and the rush of adrenaline was fading. She felt extremely tired. Her head drooped and her breathing evened out, and she fell into a heavy dreamless slumber.

Harriet awoke to a tattered-looking owl rapping on the window. After nearly having her eyes pecked out, Hagrid grunted to Harriet that she needed to pay the owl, and she had fished out some small bronze coins she did not recognize from his big furry coat to pay the owl. It flew out the window after letting out a despising squawk.

That was if owls could despise people. But Harriet felt that if someone told her the Earth was flat right now, she would have believed it.

Later that day, Hagrid was very helpful indeed in providing her questions with answers from last night. By mid-noon, they were standing in the bustling Leakey Cauldron.

Aunt Petunia had made sure Harriet stayed away from places like this. You ungrateful girl don’t put us into anymore trouble

The bar was filled with raucous people, much like the three men who had chased her some time ago. Harriet dropped half a step behind Hagrid, shielding herself completely behind the huge half-giant.

“Is this—can it be?” People gasped everywhere around the bar. “Oh Merlin’s pants!” “It’s Harriet Potter!”

Suddenly Harriet felt herself overwhelmed with people; they were everywhere, some were shaking her hand vigorously, some were crowded around her like coveted treasure, some were cheering and making loud noises in the back ground—

It was too much.

She breathed rapidly and harshly. Crowds made her uncomfortable. It meant either she was about to be punched by Dudley and his gang, or she was about to be laughed and jeered at for her ugly clothes and duct-taped glasses.

Thankfully Hagrid seemed to realize her plight and quickly came to the rescue.

“Move now, yer lot!” Hagrid ushered the over passionate crowd to one side, clearing out a path for Harriet. “Y’all crowdin’ Harriet! Come along now, Harriet.” She managed a small smile as she brushed past the crowd. These people were friendly at least and they had no evil intentions, and you need to get yourself together, she told herself firmly.

As Harriet followed behind Hagrid, she sudden felt a stab of pain behind her forehead.

A pale young man was gazing avidly at her. He looked nervous, dressed in dark purple robes, a ridiculously large turban wrapped around his head.

The sting faded as quick as it came. Harriet shrugged and dismissed it.

—————————————————

Quickly lost in the wonders of Diagon Alley (seriously did she just see a flying carpet?), for the first time in her life Harriet felt she could burst with joy. She had a sturdy pouch of glittering gold galleons in her pocket which were all hers, and she was more than sure that she would still have a good amount to spend even after purchasing all that was required on the list attached to the letter. It had taken a very firm NO from Hagrid, “It says pewter on yer list Harriet!”, to stop her from buying a beautiful solid gold cauldron or a sparkling silver unicorn horn for which Harriet was sure she would have no use for at all.

She had however, managed to get herself some very nice school robes from Madam Malkin’s and changed into them immediately in the changing rooms. Pity they didn’t sell muggle (she was picking up new vocabulary left and right too) clothes, but anything was better than Dudley’s hideous leftovers.

Coming out of the changing rooms, she saw a boy with a pale, pointed face standing on a foot stool. Madam Malkin was measuring him with those magical tape of her’s, and it appeared that he was being suited up in the same fashion as Harriet.

“Hello,” said the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Harriet.

“My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow." He eyed Harriet expectantly, as if waiting for some comment.

“Cool,” Harriet said unsurely, not quite sure how to take in all this new knowledge. She instinctively disliked the boy, as she was strongly reminded of Dudley when he swaggered in the house boasting of his new bike and all the cool things he could do with it.

A faint blush crept onto the boy’s face. “Say, what’s your name again? I don’t think we’ve met.” He took a second closer look at Harriet.

“That’s because you haven't asked,” Harriet sharply said.

The blush on the boy’s face burned even brighter. Harriet wondered if anyone had ever spoken back to him in his life. The boy blinked.

“Oh sorry,” He said, sounding only ever so slightly apologetic, “I’m Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” Then he continued in that drawling voice as if Harriet hadn’t ever stopped him, “I think I’m going to Slytherin, all our family have been -- imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?”

“What is Slytherin? Or Hufflepuff?” Harriet asked, annoyed but too curious to let the matter pass.  
“Great Merlin, how can you not know the houses of Hogwarts? Are your parents not wizards? Are you—”

“They're dead,” said Harriet shortly. She didn't feel much like going into the matter with this boy. Then she spied Hagrid waving at her from the window, holding and pointing at two large ice creams to show why he couldn’t come in. Glad to have an excuse to leave, she gathered Dudley’s old clothes and roughly stuffed them in the bag Madam Malkin had kindly provided her, stiffly nodded a good bye to the boy, and marched out the shop.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you at Hogwarts then!” Draco Malfoy called out behind her, but Harriet didn’t respond.

—————————————————

The days before school flew past. Harriet could hardly believe her eyes, but she was now standing in the Great Hall, candles floating above, enchanted ceiling blinking a merry welcome with twinkling stars.

Ron and Hermione stood on the two sides of her. Oh they had been so very nice—-Ron jumped up and had helped her tug her trunk into the train compartment, and Hermione had offered Harriet her compartment when they needed to change into school robes. And not once, not even once, had she been called out for doing something strange and out of place.

The strict professor McGonagall, dressed in emerald green robes and a pointy hat with an adorning feather, was now reading names from a long scroll.

Wide-eyed, Harriet looked around her. Professors, she assumed, was sitting at the end of the Great Hall. In the center was the old man she had seen on the chocolate frog card, Albus Dumbledore, dressed in the most astounding shade of dark red, with shining gold dust at the hems. When he caught Harriet staring at him, he had smiled and nodded at her.

A few chairs away sat the man who had took her back (Severus Snape was it? It’s probably Professor Snape now), still dressed all in black. His face was very sour and he looked like he could murder someone on the spot. The pale young man with the ridiculous turban she had seen in Leakey Cauldron was also sitting next to professor Snape, looking highly uncomfortable and very much intimidated by Snape’s presence. Harriet wouldn’t blame him.

“Potter, Harriet!”

Suddenly, her name was called. Was it already up to letter P?

She stiffly climbed up the high stool, the hair on her neck prickling as once again she felt the uncomfortable sensation when all eyes gathered on her and she became the object of all attention. She caught Hermione’s face sitting at the Gryffindor table in a sea of people; she smiled a comforting smile at Harriet. Then professor McGonagall dropped the large sorting hat over her head, and all she could see was darkness.

“Hmm,” said a small voice in her ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. A nice thirst to prove yourself, I see. But there’s plenty of courage as well. So where shall I put you?”

Harriet remembered how Malfoy had almost immediately been sorted to Slytherin. “Not Slytherin,” She thought furiously.

“Not Slytherin hmmm? It’s hardly fair to be prejudiced to an entire House just because of one person (Harriet gave an uncomfortable squirm in her seat at this point—the hat was literally reading her thoughts) Well…Slytherin could lead you to fame and glory, are you sure? Perhaps you do not desire these, well in that case, you’d be better in GRYFFINDOR!”

—————————————————

Severus had a sudden Déjà vu looking at the girl in the crowd of obnoxious first years. He could almost close his eyes and see Lily standing there, different hair, but the same barely-withholding excitement whilst remaining equally nervous expression on her face. Up until that moment, she had been his. Then the hat pronounced its choice, and she had walked confidently away to be swallowed by monsters.

Was that when he started losing her?

Or was it when James Potter had barged into the train compartment, finding fault with his entire existence?

No it was just him and his fault alone—that day—

Viciously Severus pulled back his thoughts. Not now. He allowed his eye to wander onto a certain Draco Malfoy, who was sitting stiff and proud at the head of Slytherin’s table, pretending that he wasn’t excited by all this. Draco caught him looking, and he eagerly grinned a grin slightly too big to be authentically Malfoy.

Take another few years and he’ll be another Lucius, Severus thought, but let him enjoy the rest of his precious youth. Heirs of pureblood families always mature too fast, their childhood caught up in the whirlwind of power dynamics and social bloodbaths.

He nodded to Draco. The young boy immediately beamed and struggled to maintain his composure.

A sudden clatter drew his attention. On his left, Quirrell had been fidgeting so much in his seat he had knocked his fork straight off the table and into his robes. Severus thinks the man had been trying to make conversation with him the entire night, but he couldn't be sure and could not be bothered—Quirrell had barely managed to get a single complete word out whenever he turned his eye on him.

He was intimidating, he knew that. But this poor heap of pig fodder had been desecrating his limits of tolerance, and the mere thought alone that he would be the one to teach Defense against the Dark Arts was revolting. Perhaps a Cornish pixie will catch him and that will be the merry end of Professor Quirrell.

Evil ideas flashing through his mind, Severus looked out over the Great Hall as Quirrell turned in his seat, fishing for his fork whilst mumbling apologies no one was listening to.

The girl was gazing avidly at him from the Gryffindor table. A look of startled surprise entered into her eyes as she suddenly grimaced and rubbed at her scar.

Interesting. Mental note to look this up later.

Then she had turned to her new friends (one of them apparently another Weasley with that red hair— Oh Salazar what was Molly Weasley’s fascination with children he could not understand) and resumed chatting, a look of perfect happiness on her face.

He looked away.

—————————————————

Harriet carefully piled her plate with a bit of everything that looked fabulous. Aunt Petunia had never starved her, but she didn’t get good meals either. If she was bursting with joy in Diagon Alley, now she was definitely in heaven. She had nice new friends surrounding her, and they had cheered in such a way when she was sorted into Gryffindor that she felt a warm tickling sensation spread all the way from her toes to the top of her head.

She dragged a baked potato into her plate. The skin was a light brown and was layered with thick golden cheese sprinkled with parsley and thyme. When she plunged her fork into it, it dug in with a satisfying crunch and came away with trailing strands of cheese. The taste was exquisite.

Not even the almost severed head of Nearly Headless Nick or Ron making loud swallowing noises could undermine her appetite. Next to her, Hermione was shooting disapproving looks at Ron.

“I'm half-and-half,” said Seamus from across the table. “Me dad's a Muggle. Mom didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”

Neville said something about his gran in response, but Harriet wasn’t paying attention. She had started thinking about her own parents. Mommy and daddy. Would they have been proud that she was a witch and was sorted to Gryffindor? Would they have come to the King Cross station, her daddy smiling as he drags her trunk for her, and her mommy running and waving after the train as she left? That’s what parents do, right?

She would never know. The baked potato lost all attraction. She stuck her fork into it once again, downcast, but could not bring herself to eat another bite.

The feeling was like a stone in her stomach and it continued all the way until she was sitting on her bed in Gryffindor tower.

“Harriet!” Hermione said sharply. “Are you alright? You haven't said anything the whole way up.” She was already unpacking, and out of the corner of her eye Harriet could see multiple books taking up more than half of her trunk. She recognized A History of Magic purely because of its thickness.

“I dunno,” Harriet grunted, “I guess I’m fine, really.” She didn’t feel like explaining.

Hermione looked a bit uncertain. “If you say so,” with a tone of I-get-you-don’t-want-to-talk-so-there, “you’d better unpack. Classes start tomorrow and let me see…in the mornings we have Transfiguration with our head of house, professor McGonagall, and in the afternoon, Defense against the Dark Arts with professor Quirrell. Have you looked at the first chapter of the basics of wand movements yet? There was a part I did not quite understand—”

“Wait what?” Harriet was so dumbfounded and nervous by now all previous feeling had been forgotten, “You have already read the first chapter of our textbook?”

“Well, not really for Defense, no, I felt it didn’t make sense if I couldn’t practice with a wand in class with the professor,” Hermione cleared her throat and continued. “But I found it really useful to read up on Transfiguration—it seems such a hard topic—and there was this really interesting bit about channeling your magic through concentration part in chapter 9—wait don’t tell me you haven’t previewed?”

“Umm no,” Harriet weakly replied, feeling utterly stupid by now.

Though technically it wasn’t her fault. She had thought about reading the textbooks (if not for study but at least to get a taste of magic), but Uncle Vernon had roughly tossed everything she got from Diagon Alley into a locked cupboard and refused to give them to her until the last day when she had to leave.

“Hmm,” Harriet had known Hermione barely for a day, but at that moment she swore she could see the gears in Hermione’s head clicking. Hermione glanced at the large wooden grandfather clock in the corner of their dormitory. “It’s only 9 o’clock now, I reckon we could read through at least a chapter on Transfiguration before 10:30, and I’d love to go through the stuff a third time,” she said, looking expectantly at Harriet.

Harriet sighed. “Let’s do it,” and she hauled herself off the bed.

That night, her dreams were filled by big purple turbans which swirled into a man in black robes whose face she could not see, and then it was the strong green light again with inhuman high-pitched laughter in the background—

Later when she woke up, she somehow felt more tired than before.


	3. It's Complicated

“Men at some time are masters of their fates;  
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,  
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”

\--– Cassius to Brutus, Act 1 Scene 2 _Julius Caesar_ , **William Shakespeare**

Thanks to Hermione who always made sure Harriet was awake when she got up, Harriet had never been late to a single one of her classes.

She glanced over at Ron, and suppressed a cold shiver as she thought about what would have happened to her on Transfigurations class if she had been late. Ron had came rushing into the Transfiguration classroom with Seamus in the morning, a full good 10 minutes after she had settled down with Hermione.

Then the silver-streaked tabby had jumped from the table _Harriet had been itching to pet it, but seeing no one else did she didn’t as well_ and transformed into professor McGonagall right in front of her eyes. And then gave Ron and Seamus a good scolding. And then threatened to turn them into a watch and a map. And then told everyone to not mess in her class and consider that a final warning. And then class had started.

Harriet was sincerely glad she **did not** pet the tabby.

She shot Ron a sympathetic look, and Ron replied with a grimace.

Defense in the Dark Arts was very much different though. Hearing the name Harriet had thought of blood sacrifices, cold dark knifes made of unknown substances, and 10,000 ways to ward off curses. Maybe she could even learn a few spells to scare Dudley. She had not expected professor Quirrell to be standing in the classroom smelling strongly of garlic talking of his past experiences with zombies and vampires. The garlic smell gave her painful headaches when it got too intense.

Sometimes he would go off in a fit of passion and rant about some deep complicated theory of magic, all the while pacing and occasionally throwing his hands up in excitement, but whenever he passed by Harriet, he seemed to become flustered and withdrawn, the stuttering become absolutely terrible, and would mumble something incoherent about the weather.

The only other professor who had somehow lived up to her expectations of a professor’s dignity, apart from professor McGonagall, had been Snape.

As she plunked down into the icy depths of the dungeon with Hermione (who was chattering non-stop about the draught of living death and how it reminded her of anesthetic her parents used), Harriet couldn’t help but think about Snape. Her gut feeling had always been very accurate, and while Professor McGonagall had strictly reprimanded her when she made a mistake, Harriet felt that deep down the old lady radiated a steady warmth towards her. It was quite the opposite with Snape. He hadn’t been exactly terrible with her when he delivered her back to the hotel, considering that it was a good deal in general, but then when their looks intercrossed in the Great Hall and Harriet had tried giving him a teeny bit of appreciation, she had felt chilled to the bone by his emotionless look. Somehow Harriet was sure, what lies under that pan of dead water wasn’t positive.

Severus Snape did not like Harriet Potter.

“Double potions with the Slytherins,” Ron groaned loudly behind her as he sat down in the classroom. Snape has not appeared yet. “Those slimy snakes. Heard Snape really favors them. Wish professor McGonagall favored us as well.”

“She probably would if you had been worth it,” came the arrogant, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy. He came swaggering into the classroom flanked by those human mountains of Crabbe and Goyle. Harriet could swear that Crabbe was so stupid he couldn’t tell the difference between an orange or an apple, as long as both were edible. “But then why would she waste time on you, when you can’t even buy your own wand? How does your blood traitor mother manage—”

Ron turned a livid red.

Before anyone could react, he rounded on Malfoy with a roar and sent his fist smashing into Malfoy’s face. Both fell to the floor, punching and kicking and trying to take each other’s eye out. Hermione let out a small shriek of terror.

Harriet jumped up and rushed over to Ron’s arm, furiously trying to disentangle Ron’s arm from Malfoy’s shoulder. Crabbe and Goyle was still gaping stupidly, but Pansy Parkinson had rushed in as well and was yanking at Harriet while screaming at the top of her lungs “let go you disgusting bitch you’re hurting Draco—”

It was now when Snape chose to make his entrance.

Severus waved his wand before him, and the door flew open with a bang as he strode in. He hated the first days of class, especially the first years. They had not yet been bullied into submission and learn when to stop committing acts of stupidity in his presence, and he has to start over every year.

Ah, here was the first act of stupidity. Right under his nose.

“What pray are you doing in my class?”

Ron froze. Harriet managed to successfully drag him away from Malfoy, whose sleek hair had become tousled and was now sporting a healthy bruise across his cheekbone. Panting and quite spent out, Ron had a cut bleeding lip and winced visibly when Harriet grabbed his arm.

Pansy immediately piped up, “It was him, it was Weasley, sir, we weren’t doing anything and he just jumped on Draco! Look at Draco’s bruise!”

Upon these words Harriet had started to yell—shut up you stupid lying Parkinson—but Hermione who had come up behind her yanked her back, choking her words back into her throat. Ron looked like he was ready to commit murder again, and Malfoy had blushed a furious red and was stammering that he was completely fine.

“ ** _Silence_**.” The word cuts across the commotion like sharp cold knives of steel. Harriet shivers. Even Malfoy shuts up.

“I will not tolerate any level of foolishness in my class. 20 points from Gryffindor for attacking another student, Weasley. Now, **_sit down_**.” He said the last word with such ferocity Harriet felt her body instinctively complying to the demand, the unfairness of it all making her want to cry and smash something at the same time. She blinked away hotly the tears of anger, straightening next to Hermione (who shot her a look of sympathy and secretly squeezed her hand under the table) and sat ramrod straight.

—————————————————

Potions had not started well.Severus was positively pissed. It was James Potter all again, always actively seeking and landing himself in trouble and well, he wasn’t going to coddle the girl like everyone else does (absolutely fawning over her), it would do her no good.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly.

Startled, Harriet looked up. Her anger had faded reasonably by now and was actually scribbling down the instructions Snape had created on the blackboard with an idle wave of his wand.

“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? (Hermione’s hand shot into the air.) Oh wait that sounds familiar…

“A draught of Living Death, sir? ” said Harriet questioningly. That’s what Hermione had been mumbling about on the way down, right?

Snape’s face remained expressionless. He continued.

"Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Harriet’s mind franticly flashed back to last night when she and Hermione had paged through the chapter about important antidotes that could save you…there was mention of a bezoar and there had been a rather gruesome picture of a goat cut open…

“Ummmm…somewhere in the stomach of a goat?” Hermione still had her hand up, but she gave Harriet a little grin. Harriet felt that she could breathe again.

“And finally, what is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

That, Harriet was completely sure she did not have a faintest idea of.

“I don’t know, sir, I think Hermione would know the answer?” she said quietly. This time, Hermione positively stood up, hand high up in the air, quivering. Ron snorted behind them. Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands.

Severus shot a dangerous glance at Ron before sweeping down from his stand and lowered himself in front of the girl so that they were face to face. He could see the girl forcing herself not to cower.

“Tut, tut — for our new celebrity, fame clearly isn't everything.” he said in the most sarcastic tone he could gather.

_Think you’re too good to look at the textbooks?_

_My my what pathetic ignorance—_

Severus opened his mouth again to produce more scathing remarks _thousands more came crowding into mind_ but suddenly, he found that he couldn’t say anything. Right there, behind those hideous glasses, Lily’s eyes were wide open and round, picking up on the pain of his remark and knowing there was more, looking at him with fear, fighting against it but almost a bit teary—

He couldn’t continue. Lily had never looked at him like that. Even when she had been so terribly hurt by him, she had only flounced her hair and walked away, sad but fiercely proud.

Not like this. Never like this.

He got up and returned to his stand.

—————————————————

After that first cutting comment, Snape left Harriet well alone. She had caught him gazing intensely at her from the corner of her eye some times, but he never spoke to her directly again. Whenever Ron and Malfoy had another fight in class (which was rather frequent but Harriet learned to read the signs and often stopped the fights from escalating to physical injury by making Ron sit down with the help of Hermione), Snape always only deducted points on Ron’s behalf, sometimes also on Hermione’s, but Harriet’s name had never been mentioned. There was never any other writing apart from a letter grade on her essays, and she was never called out for questions. Harriet didn’t dare to taunt this strange unfounded tolerance’s limits though, and bore through the occasional taunts thrown at her, mainly from Parkinson.

It was slightly surprising to discover, but she actually liked potions. The precise cutting and weighing of the materials, the delicate stirring of the cauldron, and the way potions would turn to all delightful shades of a rainbow all reminded her of the old days when she would cook for the Dursley’s. She did not like cooking **for them** though, but she liked the way raw, unbecoming materials would blossom and become savory delicacies under her hands. It was kind of the same way with potions. It almost made the though-silent-but-still-haunting presence of Snape and the obnoxious Slytherins bearable.

Harriet couldn’t understand Snape’s behavior, but she didn’t really care. It was bad enough to lose points for Gryffindor, when people turn to look at her, and her name would always be whispered.

_Harriet Potter._

Her name carries so much weight: the girl who lived, the one who defeated Voldemort, the only person to have survived the killing curse, the miracle of the wizarding world—

But Harriet had done nothing herself. All she could remember of that fateful night was the flashing green light and a man’s cold-pitched laughter. She hadn’t done anything to deserve all this attention. She didn’t even really know about the wizarding world. Up to now she had shown no astounding talent at magic; she could barely turn the match to look like anything similar to a needle in professor McGonagall’s class, and she felt she was not special at anything else either—what if they had it all wrong? What if she was not the one? Are people’s hopes going to be dashed by her?

At nights, sometimes anxiety plagued her so intensely, she suffered bouts of insomnia that made her feel that there is some strange creature curling itself in her stomach. By the time the first rays of light hit the Gryffindor dormitories, she would have tossed and turned in her blankets so much she literally has twisted herself in them, without falling asleep at all.

In fact, potions and flying were the only two subjects that offered slight consolation and made Harriet feel better about herself, as she felt she was actually doing pretty well in these. In potions, nine times out of ten her potion had turned out to be exactly the way the textbook had instructed. In flying, well, Harriet could say with confidence she was born to fly.

Every Thursday, she would happily climb up on her new Nimbus 2000 (her gut instincts were correct indeed) which leapt agilely up into her hand at first command; then soar away high, high up into the sky. Wind cut through her tousled hair making it even messier; if she slipped and fell there’s surely no one who could save her at that height, but she didn't care. Her worries were left on the ground and she was free.

An even better part: Malfoy could not fly as well as her, not even with his top-of-the-pick broom. Harriet had actually managed to knock him off his broom once, and though he has managed to hang on with one hand and climb back on, she could sense Malfoy being more reserved in his insulting comments. Ha.

It’s quite impossible to get that fat mouth to completely shut up though, Harriet thought with a bit of regret. Maybe she should sneak a bludger from Oliver Wood and smash it into Malfoy’s face.

—————————————————

“You're saying it wrong,” Harriet heard Hermione snap at Ron. "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long.”

She sighed. It’s been two months, and Harriet’s sure that she would love no one more than Hermione Granger. But Hermione could get on people’s nerves. She really could. Harriet didn’t mind the sometimes a-little-too-bossy remarks Hermione would make, or the less-of-a-question-but-more-of-a-demand “let’s go to the library and study”, but she had seen Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, the two other girls who shared the room, shoot Hermione looks of displease and never ask if she wanted to hang out with them.

“Say Mione,” Harriet cut across Ron, who was obviously going to snarl some unpleasant retort, “do you move your wrist like this,” She gave her wrist a counter-clock twist, “or like this?”

“It’s a flick! Here, let me show you—” Hermione eagerly replied, her attention now fully resting on Harriet and forgetting about Ron. Inner Harriet sighed with relief.

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said, “Wingardium Leviosa!” Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their heads.

“Oh, well done!” cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. “Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it!”

Ron’s face just grew darker. He turned away and started chatting to Seamus.

As they were packing their bags and heading out, Harriet felt that she had to talk. She hesitated at how to start this awkward conversation(offering advice had never been her strong suit), but Hermione beat her to it.

“I swear Harriet, did you see Ron’s face?” _Oh no Harriet had rather hoped she didn’t see it_ “I mean, it’s him who couldn't wave his wand properly—what if he blew the feather all up, just like Seamus did?”

“Well,” said Harriet carefully, “maybe Ron just wanted to do things by himself and didn’t like to be pushed,” Hermione’s face dropped at this, so she hastily added, “you’re really brilliant and maybe he just a bit jealous.”

Hermione sniffed indignantly. “That’s hardly my fault is it? But is it really that bad—”

Just then, Ron, who was walking with Seamus about ten paces ahead, ranted very loudly, “It’s no wonder no one could stand her! She’s a nightmare!”

Hermione turned stark white, but flushed red instantly.

Harriet reached out to take her hand. “Mione, now, look here—”

“Oh no not you too Harriet!” Hermione burst into tears, and took off running, bowling into a surprised Ron but not even slowing down until she had disappeared at the end of the corridor.

“Oh hullo Harriet, didn’t see you there,” Ron said sheepishly, “did you reckon she’s heard…heard it all? I mean, what a temper, she must have noticed she's got no friends—”

“No she definitely heard you alright,” Harriet said brusquely, “And I’m her friend.” She then took off to find Hermione, leaving a highly-uncomfortable-looking Ron behind.

Hermione disappeared for the next class and the entire afternoon as well. Harriet got more and more agitated; Hermione missing classes? Is the world ending? Her search for her friend continued from afternoon till evening, but to no avail. It was almost time for the Halloween feast, thousands of live bats fluttered about under the ceiling, twice the original amount of candles floated about, and the aroma of delicious food wafted about the castle, but Harriet wasn't in the mood.

She was descending the stairs down to the Great Hall with Ron (pointedly not talking to him though) when she saw Parvatil and Lavender.

“Parvatil, Lavender!” Harriet rushed over. “Have you seen Hermione?”

“I think I heard her crying in the girl’s bathroom, but we didn't know what was the matter…”, Parvatil said slightly awkwardly. Lavender sniffed haughtily next to her.

“Great, I’ll be going.” Turning, Harriet started climbing back exactly the same way she had came.

“But wait! What about the feast?” Ron said.

“Oh go stuff your face all you want, Ron! I’m finding Hermione, whatever it takes!” Harriet snapped. She was getting more pissed off by Ron every minute.

Turning, she resumed her trip up the stairs.

—————————————————

Where was the girl? Severus wondered. He could see the red hair of the youngest Weasley boy, but the girl was no where to be found. Ignoring the girl had been easy in class, given that she only committed trivial annoyances and part of him didn’t really want to torment her ( _no it was not pity he told himself firmly_ ), but on matters of greater significance he couldn’t. She hadn't been eating well these days, and there were dark shadows under her eyes whenever she had looked up at him in class. It was highly un-Potterly to miss such a feast; it was the time to be with friends, laugh raucously at the table while shamelessly flirting with girls, crack jokes at each other, and then perhaps after eating all to their heart’s content go find some lonely Slytherin outcast and kick his ass.

He was sure the girl was up to no good.

The doors of the Great Hall flew open, and Quirrell sprinted into the hall.

_Keep an eye on Quirrell…Severus….I fear all may not be what it seems…._

Severus’s grip on his goblet of water tightened.

“Troll — in the dungeons — thought you ought to know.” The man then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

The girl, the stone—anger, or is it worry—Severus found himself standing, but it went unnoticed amidst all the commotion and the uproar.

He glanced over at his prefects. They had already started organizing the Slytherins into small groups (he was proud to notice that his house had remained the calmest of all four; the Hufflepuffs are literally scampering all over the floor now) and was ushering them back into the dormitories neatly.

He slipped out through the faculty entrance. Heading straight for the third floor, he saw the lock on the door open. Did Quirrell already get inside? The girl have better have had nothing to do with this.

“Shite,” Severus swore and dove inside the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

The sudden darkness of the room caught him unawares. As he lit up his wand with a “Lumos”, the sight of a gigantic hideous dog with three heads came into view. All at once he heard multiple low growls and as he leapt back, one of the head lurched at him, sinking its teeth into his leg and ripping viciously.

Severus has just enough time to slam the door shut in the dog’s barking faces before another head managed to do something worse than taking a chunk out of his leg. Damn his reflexes were getting slow. Falsified peace has slackened him. “Bloody stupid beast—” He was about to break into a string of colorful words when he saw Quirrell lurking next to one of the stone knights in the corridor.

“I hope you’re not trying anything stupid.” Severus immediately collected himself, regaining a cool and despising tone.

“No—no—not at all, I was just—just checking that no students came this way,” Quirrell stammered.

“You’re a pathetic liar. I know what you want.” Severus spat. You’ve come to the wrong place, you weakling.

“But—but—I don’t—don’t know what you’re talking about—” Quirrell’s feeble rebuttal was cut short by a faint scream of a girl resounding downstairs. _Could that be—_

“We’ll have a little chat later. Go alert the Headmaster.” Without waiting for Quirrell’s response, Severus turned and swept past him, cursing internally at the sharp slivers of pain running up his left leg. Three headed dog’s saliva contain anti-blood congealing poison which would prevent wounds from closing up. He would need to get that checked, but not now.

—————————————————

Harriet found Hermione sobbing in the girl’s bathroom, just like Parvatil had said. But Hermione had locked herself in the last stall and refused to let Harriet in despite her pleas.

“C’mon Mione, I’m sorry, are you okay? Ron was such a git but don’t let that spoil your mood, it’s not worth it! Look, just come out and we can go to the feast, and I’ll even study with you in the library after that! Wouldn’t you like that?” The only thing that replied to Harriet was the continued sobbing of Hermione, followed by an occasional hiccup.

Harriet then tried pushing the door open, but Hermione was apparently sitting on the other side of it and refused to bulge. Resolved, Harriet slid down with her back to the wall, determined to wait her best friend out. Hermione couldn’t barricade herself in there forever.

She smelt it first, rather than hearing it. It was such a terrible odour—like when you threw your week-old socks in the rubbish heap and allowed it to rot there — and then she heard the rhythmic **_thump, thump, thump_** of heavy, dragging foot steps. A huge, twisted shadow fell across the girl’s bathroom door.

“Hermioooone…? I think, I think there’s something,” Harriet whispered frantically.

Hermione opened the door a crack. Her eyes were puffy and red, and there were tear trails glistening on her cheeks.

“What’s,” *sniff*, “the matter Harriet?”

Harriet gestured frantically at the door. Some kind of gigantic deformed monster popped its hideous head inside. It had tiny eyes stuck deep in a green-purplish bald head, and it wore a loin cloth that was so dirty one couldn’t even tell its original color. It was also carrying a gigantic club that looked like it came straight out of a tree. Hermione looked, and her mouth popped to a small, slightly whimsical “O”.

“It’s a troll! Quick, hide—” Harriet ducked into Hermione’s stall but the troll had already seen them, it was advancing on them—

The troll raised its club and with one sweep, demolished the upper half of all the stalls. Hermione screamed.

Amidst all the racket, Harriet’s brain suddenly became sharp and focused, adrenaline pumping through her veins. The troll was blocking the door, no they couldn’t make it out that way; its skin looked very thick so the few spells Harriet knew probably couldn’t penetrate it either; the only weapon was the club, it was large and deadly but it was slow, it was slow—

As another hit came whirling down from above intending to crush them into little smithereens, Harriet pushed Hermione, still frozen in terror, violently to the left and leapt forward, rolling under the tiny space between the troll’s legs. The club smashed into where their faces were seconds ago. For an instant, Harriet had a vision of an oversized Dudley.

Seizing her chance, she skirted around the troll—if she could distract it from behind and maybe lure it outside of the bathroom Hermione would get her chance to escape—and collided into a very shocked Ron Weasley.

“Get it to come this way!” Harriet said desperately to Ron, so glad to see him but having no time at all to hug him; seizing a tap, she threw it as hard as she could against the wall. Ron copied her movement, taking up a piece of broken rubble and throwing as hard as he can at the troll’s head.

The piece of rubble caught the troll head on. But its skull must have been so thick, it remained completely unfazed. But it did stop a few feet away from Hermione. Then it lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had made the racket. Its mean little eyes saw Harriet and Ron, hesitated, then made for them instead, lifting its club as it went.

Harriet grabbed Ron’s hand. “Wait…wait….wait…now back up slowly…Hermione stay quiet…” she fixed her eyes on the troll and walked back, kicking the rubble loudly under her shoes.

“Oy, pea brain, look over here!” Ron shouted next to her. The troll took the bait. It lunged.

“Now! Run!” Harriet screamed. They bolted towards the door.

The troll was coming in a bit faster than expected; Harriet had underestimated its speed. How could something that big move this fast now? The hairs on the back of her neck rose at feeling the wind created by the club, surely she was going to break a few bones even in the best of luck—

“Impedimenta! Stupefy!”

The troll suddenly stopped as if it slammed into a solid wall as two bolts of light blue and red light hit it right between the eyes. Then it wobbled on its feet, the club dropping on the floor and rolling right next to Harriet, swayed and fell right over its feet. Then it moved no more.

Harriet felt she could never have been happier to see another person, even if the person standing in the doorway, in all his billowing black robes, wand out and glaring at them, was Severus Snape.

—————————————————

“YOU—COULD—HAVE BEEN—KILLED—”

Snape was breathing through his teeth, his eyes were wild, strands of inky hair trembling with with every shaking breath. He looked like he could devour Harriet.

In that heartbeat Harriet would have traded anything to be back in the clutches of the troll, just to escape the wrath of Snape. It could bash her head in and end all this trouble. She didn’t care. The awful meanness she had suffered first day of potions class was back, only a thousand times worse. Her happiness was completely gone now.

Severus watched as the girl cringed, seeming to shrink in on herself and make herself look even smaller than she already was.

If something had happened to her how could him live with himself _calm_ had he failed his one last promise of protection _yourself_ failed Lily killed her then failed her _down_ —(he took a deep breath _look at her look at her is she alright_ )—but apart from being covered by dust from head to toe, the girl looked fine. It was then he shifted his wrath to the youngest Weasley, standing next to the girl with an extremely guilty/terrified look.

“WHAT—MAKES—YOUR—IMBECILE—LITTLE—BRAINS—”

“Severus!” Minerva burst into the room, clearly having run all the way here and usually neat hair bun slightly tousled, but still looking like an enraged lioness in her full glory. Sometimes in this aspect, Severus had to admit, the woman matched him.

She then realized the state of the room.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Minerva, with cold fury in her voice. The girl had looked up with hope, but now she quickly lowered her head back down. The Weasley boy was still standing with a piece of rubble in hand. “You're lucky you weren't killed. If professor Snape had not arrived on time I could not imagine; you should thank him for saving your lives. Why aren't you in your dormitories?”

Then a small voice came out of the shadows.

“Please, professor McGonagall — they were looking for me.”

He hadn’t even noticed Granger huddled in the corner of the stall. 

“Miss Granger!” Minerva exclaimed.

Granger shakily climbed to her feet.

“I went looking for the troll because I — I thought I could deal with it on my own — you know, because I've read all about them.” she said.

Minerva was looking very disappointed by now; Severus could see all the little lines around her eyes hardening up. Granger took a shaky breath and resumed with her story.

Lies. Clearly.

The girl and the Weasley boy looked equally surprised. The girl had put on a straight face quickly enough and nodded along with the story, but the Weasley boy was so stupid he couldn’t even stop his eyes from googling at Granger. Severus had wanted to snort at their pathetic attempt, but he was still too angry, so he stood back in the shadows like a dark statue.

Minerva seemed to buy the story though. Secretly Severus wondered if it was really more because she didn’t want to keep digging the dirt in front of him (she had been competitive enough between the houses) but Minerva would never admit to something like that; she was too upright. In the end, she even managed to let Gryffindor come off with five points more after the incident—while HE was the one accused of playing favorites—but never mind, Severus thought shamelessly, he’ll just deduct the points in potions class tomorrow. Count on the impotent Longbottom to blow up another cauldron.

“Professor…professor McGonagall?” Just as he was expecting the whole matter to be over, the girl suddenly piped up, voice slightly quivering but firm. “Why is there a troll in Hogwarts?”

The question seemed to catch Minerva unawares. Severus was sure it was a diversion created by Quirrell to get to the Philosopher’s Stone (the culprit was now sitting on one of the toilets trembling; someone give him an Oscar), but Minerva couldn’t tell the students that. Plus, he was not sure if Dumbledore had even warned Minerva of Quirrell, the secretive old fox.

“As of now, we do not know.” Minerva looked rather confused as well. So Dumbledore had not told her about Quirrell, then. “This matter shall be looked into immediately. But I personally guarantee that Hogwarts is safe for now. Please go back to your dormitories.”

For now. Severus looked at the ceiling. The darker days lay ahead, claws sharpened, fangs bared, ready to claim all of their pathetic lives. Including Harriet Potter’s life. And he will do everything in his power to stop that.

As he watched the girl disappear with the Weasley boy and Granger down the corridor (pray to Salazar there will be no more stupid adventures tonight), a cold jolt of pain brought him back to reality. Severus looked down. In his hurried attempt to get here, he had further opened the wound. By the dim light of the bathroom, he could see the black fabric around the ripped hole on his left leg contrasted sickly against his pale skin, except the parts where it was drenched with dark blood, still bleeding.

That’s the problem with black. It can cover your blood, but it can’t cover who you are.

He wrapped his robes around himself and left.


	4. Let the Show Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely a chapter I would like to polish more, and you may have noticed how I keep going back on previous chapters and changing some details. As a non-native English speaker, sometimes the appropriate words do not come to me and it really irks me off. I apologize for any possible grammatical/unclear meaning problems!

The wind begun to rock the grass

With threatening tunes and low, —

He flung a menace at the earth,

A menace at the sky.

**_\----A Thunder-Storm_** , Emily Dickinson

Harriet later realized she had not thanked Snape. There was him being all weird again: the ignoring act in potions class, the angry yelling and sarcastic comments, but he had went and saved her again, like that time back at the hotel. What did it all mean? She suppose she did owe him a thank you.

But he hadn't given her a chance at all in the next few days. She didn’t dare to speak to him in class, and she had not seen him out of class either. Gradually the hustle and bustle of busy Hogwarts life caught up with her, and the thought was thrown at the back of her mind and forgotten.

Two weeks later, Hermione was still ranting about the troll.

“Seriously! A troll in the school! I came here for an education; not for a Hogwarts survival 101! I could have — we could have all been killed!” Hermione dumped her bag on the stone floor with a heavy thump. The day after the troll incident, Headmaster Dumbledore had explained during breakfast in the Great Hall that the troll was a lost inhabitant of the Forbidden forest, which had snuck in through an unlocked side door in search of food. Ron had shrugged and kept on eating, but Harriet had frowned and didn’t quite buy the explanation; was magical school supposed to be this dangerous? Hermione clearly shared Harriet’s mind.

“Ehh, but we didn’t right?” Ron rubbed his hands together. They had also started hanging out together after the troll incident, and were quite familiar with each other now. “Blimey, but it’s bloody freezing out here!”

Harriet nodded along. Living in a castle made entirely of stone made it feel even colder than the winters spent back in Dursley's when there had been no proper heating in her tiny cabinet. Somehow, no matter how many layers she wore, she always felt underdressed for the cold. But she kind of liked it that way. The way the cold freezes and bites into her skin gave her a keen edge, reminding her that she was still very much alive.

They were standing in the entrance courtyard, watching the snowflakes lazily drift to the ground before the next period started. The sky was a wash of copperplate grey, and a few ravens cawed from the barren tree.

“Oh here, there’s a new spell I picked up. Just hold that jar for me, will you Ron?” Hermione briskly whipped out her wand. “Ad calorem!” she chanted. A small blue ball of flames appeared inside the glass jar, glowing gently. It looked alive, pulsing with a rhythm similar to a beating heart, emitting heat around it. Ron let out a sigh of relief.

Harriet knelt and pushed a gloveless hand into the snow. It was soft and hard, burning icy cold against her skin. She turned and looked at her two friends huddled around the glass jar behind her. She grinned. An idea came to mind and her mood immediately lightened.

“Ron…?” She put on an innocent face and edged closer to the boy. Ron looked at her warily. “I don’t like that tone, Harriet. What’s up this time?”

“Oh look, do you see that absolutely hideous gargoyle perched on that roof? I swear I just saw it move.” Harriet said in a devilishly curious voice, pointing at a small turret in the distance. Behind Ron, Hermione gave her a look of _I know what you’re doing_.

“Where? I don’t see anything—” Ron squinted hard at the direction Harriet pointed, craning his neck at the same time.

“Right…..HERE!” With a shout, Harriet plunged her icy hand down Ron’s neck. Ron yelped and almost dropped the jar.

“Argggghhhhhh! Harriet!!! You—I swear I will get you you wicked—” He started balling snow together furiously.

Harriet howled with laughter and ran, but Ron’s snowball was fast and faithful, hitting her squarely on the back and knocking her face flat into the snow. She decided to stay down, instead scooping snow into her arms and throwing it right into an on-charging Ron’s face.

Hermione sighed and sat down on a stone bench. “15 minutes before charms start! And I’m not helping you people cast the cleaning spell this time!”

Ron had started burying Harriet in the snow when she felt him stop. She seized the chance to clamber out of the pile he made on top of her and instantly started making another snow ball, yelling, “Thought you could do better than that, Ron!”

Ron didn’t respond. She whirled around, still laughing. Ron looked like he was petrified. Her laughter froze in the air and crystallized into small ice shards which were blown away by a fine gust of wind. Snape was standing there, a distinct silhouette cut out against the snow. How had he crept up on them wearing all black in this world of white?

His face looked even worse than when the darkened candle lights in the dungeons had played on the hollows of his face, creating dark blotches and bruises on his sallow skin. In the daylight, the harsher light did no compliments to his pronounced angular features at all, casting shadows in places where they should have been none, highlighting bones that were too sharp, liable of making anyone who looked wince. Harriet swallowed nervously. What was he going to do to them this time?

Severus could recognize that laugher anywhere. When he was sweeping up the shards of broken wine bottles and his mother cried next door, when he was jeered because of his threadbare robes patched too many times, when his homework was ripped to pieces and thrown in his face, it was that laugher that had held him through the night. But it wasn’t her. It was the girl. _His heart squeezed painfully._

She had apparently gotten into a snow ball fight with the Weasley boy and was laughing, the sound ringing high and clear all the way up into the sky. The joy of being a child, the kind where parents would watch from inside of the house and smile tenderly over a cup of hot tea. _But he had robbed Lily of that chance, of seeing her child grow up._

_It was him instead. Him, beyond saving, tainted soul and bloodied hands witnessing all this whilst she was the one who was gone. Life is not fair._

He realized he had walked all the way out the courtyard. He had not intended to do that, but his feet carried him there and left him to his own devices. _Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the one they hate because that’s what you are_ The mask slipped on and he grabbed onto the familiarity of it all like a drowning man. _Do what you do best. What would the scary old bat Severus Snape say?_

“Oh don't let me spoil your fun.” Severus sneered. It actually made things easier as he found an outlet with conveying his wretched mood into venom through his words.

Out of the corner of her eye, Harriet saw Hermione guiltily extinguishing the flames and sticking the jar back into her bag. She wasn’t sure if it was allowed or not, but one can never be too sure in front of Snape. Thankfully, Snape’s attention seemed to be fully focused on her and didn’t notice what Hermione was doing. Harriet was suddenly very aware of her tousled robes and a head full of snow. She pushed her askew glasses straight hastily.

“We weren’t doing anything, sir.” Ron grumbled.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Snape’s sneer grew even more derisive. “What’s that you’ve got in your pocket, Potter?”

Harriet looked down with a bit of surprise. She didn’t have anything on her—oh. A corner of Quidditch Through the Ages was sticking out of her pocket. Hermione had lent her the book after Harriet ranted non-stop for an entire night about how fun Quidditch was and how she wished she was a beater so she could knock Malfoy off of his broom.

“It’s just a book, professor Snape.” She pulled out the book and showed it to Snape.

“Library books are not to be taken outside the school,” said Snape. “Give it to me.” He pocketed the book and limped away without a further word.

“Wonder what's wrong with his leg?” Harriet pondered. She had seen the bleeding wound that Halloween night, but surely it would have already healed by now? If Madam Pomfrey had managed to fix her broken tailbone when she fell off her broom in one night, surely a simple tear wound won’t be difficult.

“Dunno, but I hope it's really hurting him,” said Ron bitterly.

Harriet didn’t really know whether or not she wanted to agree with Ron’s comment, so she simply shrugged. She looked at Snape’s retreating figure across the courtyard, contemplating if she should catch up and give her thanks. But then the bell in the clock tower started tolling, and Harriet decided to go to class. She had already put it off for a week; there is no rush. Timing hardly mattered, does it?

—————————————————

Luck was a cruel joke, a promise made for fools who rested their expectations on the undependable. From now on, I will never believe in luck again because it simply does not exist for me. Harriet told herself firmly, heart still racing as she leaned against the stone wall outside the staffroom. Also, to never open doors that did not mean to be opened (only later will she know how wrong she would be).

She wanted to find Snape and thank him for that night, and then in nigh impossible hopes, pray that he will be in a mood good enough to give her the book back. Madam Pince will peel her skin off if she couldn’t return the book in time. So she had knocked on the door to the staffroom after charms. And when she opened the door when no one answered, the most gruesome view had jumped into sight. Snape was holding his bloodied and mangled leg and cursing about something in three heads (That dog! The night Draco Malfoy challenged her to a duel!), and Filch was handing him some bandages. The sight had alarmed her so much _seeing such a haughty person hurt like that just felt wrong_ she had slammed the door shut just before she saw Snape’s head snap up, making eye contact.

Harriet hunched against the stone wall. The stones felt chill to her touch, and there was a steady hum of magic that ran beneath the surface. She shuffled her feet anxiously, torn between decisions.

_Should she just go?_

_Should she knock and explain everything? Snape had already seen her anyways._

Filch yanked open the door and looked out at her suspiciously. “Potter, what are you doing here?” The way how Filch threw each word out with such vengeance made Harriet’s hair stand on end every time. _Looks like explain everything it is._

“Ummm….is professor Snape alright?”

“That’s none of your business, sneaking around and looking at stuff you should not ehhh? You know back in my days for peeping toms we would — ”

Harriet rolled her eyes. “Actually I did want to find professor Snape.” She didn’t really want to explain to Filch though; the idea that she owed a life debt to the scariest professor of all Hogwarts was somehow embarrassing to admit in public. Plus the fact that she knew Snape is listening behind the door is even more mortifying.

She pushed past Filch, who immediately tried to grab Harriet’s collar. With the grace of a practiced seeker, she slipped through his hands and dashed to a corner far away from the caretaker.

Snape was looking at her, robes now draped over his leg, covering his wound. His expression was a perfect combination of shock and anger.

Harriet could literally smell the little sparks in the air zapping, like the time when Snape had roared at them for almost getting themselves killed by the troll. She cleared her throat hastily.

“Professor sir, it’s that I had never said thank you for saving us from the troll that night.” There’s definitely more shock than anger now on his face now, Harriet thought. “Yeah, it’s, it’s basically just that. So thank you.”

The little sparks seemed to have disappeared.

After what seemed like forever, Snape spoke. “It would pain me to see a student die in their first year due to lack of appropriate wisdom.” The words were sarcastic, but the tone was not. Harriet couldn’t really fathom it.

However it did give her a little more courage for what she wanted to say.

“Your leg, professor Snape, is it alright? I mean I got pretty badly injured once and Madam Pomfrey fixed me up quickly she’s really an awesome witch so maybe I don’t know, are teachers allowed to find her? Do you need help?” She was fussing. _Why?_

“Miss Potter, what makes you think that you can be of help? I beg you to take back your sympathy as I have no need for it. ” Severus said in a dangerously soft voice. He should probably force her to reveal how much she had seen; if she runs around with a blubbering mouth that the evil professor Snape had been bitten by a three headed monster it wouldn't be long before someone puts the pieces together. He was bewildered to find that a small part of him wanted to laugh because more than half of the medicine in the hospital wing had been brewed by him anyways. He crushed the tiny part mercilessly.

The girl looked dejected. _That’s good, you should stay away from me._

“Do you understand that this is none of your business?” Severus said, flakes of steel icing his voice.

“I won’t tell anyone.” The girl’s eyes were owlishly wide open as she looked at him firmly. She was hiding something, but she’s determinedly not saying it. Severus felt his irritation returning, but decided to let it go. How much stuff can 11 year old girls find out anyways?

“You may leave.” He sighed tiredly. His leg was absolutely killing him. It had not only stubbornly refused to heal, it had also been resistant to all kinds of spells and potions he had lathered on the wound, forcing him to resort to muggle bandages for his body to heal naturally. The wound was not dangerous, but it was certainly ANNOYING.

Miss Potter scampered past a Filch (who had started observing wickedly but soon lost interest as it became clear he was not going to punish the girl) and vanished out the door.

“You’re growing soft,” growled Filch.

“I don’t think I asked you a question.” Severus shot back, his temper putting an edge in his voice. He wasn't exactly on friendly terms with the Hogwarts caretaker, but Filch was always in a reasonably sour mood similar to him and the two had ended up exchanging a few barbs when they had night duty together.

“Remember you owe me a favor,” Filch grinned, “there’s several detentions I’d love to give out to the Weasley twins.”

Severus contemplated for a moment, and decided that Filch wasn’t really threatening him. Recruiting the help of the caretaker was not a best decision to make, but at least he wasn’t much of a talker.

“I’ll send those two your way when I catch them.” The youngest Weasley had better not grow up like those two; Severus wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle a third one, not to mention the influence it would create.

“Now can we continue our previous business or would you like to sit here all day discussing my proper attitude toward students?”

Filch grunted and moved forward with a roll of bandages.

—————————————————

“Potter for President! Potter for President!” Dean and Seamus bellowed, shaking a sheet in the air. “POTTER FOR PRESIDENT” was prescribed in large capital letters at the top in flaming red. Dean, who had a talent for drawing, had drawn a Gryffindor lion at the bottom, which then Hermione had cast a spell so that it moved.

“Say Hermione, what is a President anyways?” Ron had painted half his face red, and was scratching his head. “Is that like a Quidditch position for muggles?”

Next to Hermione, Dean roared with laughter. “No Ron,” Hermione said. “It’s what the muggles call their head of government. Not here in England though, here it’s called the minister, rather like our own minister of magic.”

Ron still looked a bit confused.

“I picked up the word when I was living in the States after my dad died and my mom decided the whole country was too sad for her,” Dean added, “I swear the States have regulations so much tougher than here. Lucky I thought I was a muggleborn for the first 10 years of my life. My mom took me back to England ever since I accidentally made a milk jug explode.”

“Hey, is that the Snitch?” Someone suddenly yelled.

“And Harriet’s going after it!”

“Go Harriet! Show those snakes!”

As the tiny streak of Gryffindor red dived, it was suddenly blocked off by the opposite Slytherin captain, Marcus Flint. The “thump” was audible all the way across the pitch. Ron grimaced as the splash of red went spinning, almost out of control.

“Oh no!!!”

“Harriet stay safe!” That was from Hermione.

“I’m going to find Flint and beat him bloody,” growled Ron.

“Count me in!” Seamus yelled, shaking a fist vigorously at Flint.

Hermione looked torn between telling Ron that Flint was twice his size and picking fights would be, like, breaking twenty school rules all at once, but then she decided to sit back down and kept an intense eye on Harriet.

Harriet managed to get her broom back under control. Compared to Flint she was tiny, but what she lacked in size, she made up in speed, but she had lost sight of the snitch. She returned to hovering above the pitch, spying for that special glint of gold.

Before the match had started, the monster in her belly had growled so loud she didn’t even catch a single word Wood had said. This was her one big chance to prove herself and to not disappoint her team mates. Wood had revolved his entire Quidditch plan around her, and if she couldn’t catch the Snitch, there's no way they’d be able to win the match. Not to mention the way how Slytherins played dirty and gradually took her fellow players off the field; Angelina already had to retire due to a cracked elbow when one of the Slytherin beaters slung the bat at her. In retaliation, George and Fred sent a bludger so precariously aimed the Slytherin beater had crashed into the stands avoiding it. But now that she’s up in the sky, feeling the crisp cold wind crashing into her face, the monster had retracted its claws and instead, adrenaline and a fierce determination to defeat the Slytherins pumped her veins.

A bludger whizzed Harriet’s way. She dodged it easily by performing a somersault on her broom; a loud cheer erupted from the Gryffindor stand.

Her Nimbus gave a sudden jerk. Was that supposed to happen?

No this is definitely not supposed to happen—Harriet thought as her broom leveled up from one jerk to a bucking wild horse that definitely intended to throw her off.

She looked down. Hundreds of feet of blank space lay between her and the hard, dry earth.

“Oh shit.” Harriet said.

—————————————————

Severus neatly tossed his hair out of his face. The wind was strong today, and it had been exceptionally cold. Next to him, Minerva was bundled up in hats and mittens, but her face had remained rigid after he had snidely reminded her how Slytherin had continuously won the House cup for 6 times in a row. His Slytherins played dirty that’s for sure, but that was the way of Slytherin. If others did not possess the adequate intelligence enough to take advantage of the loopholes in the rules, that’s not his problem.

“We’ve got Miss Potter this year. I do believe that asks for a change.” Said Minerva after a minute.

He didn’t like discussing the subject of Miss Potter with other teachers—it revealed too much—it felt like walking at the edge of a snow covered precipice and one mistaken step would topple the entire precariously built-up effort, to smash into smithereens on the gleaming spikes below.

“A little too much expectation for just one new player, don’t you think?” Severus replied. “I thought you’d have better sense. At least I know full well not to rest all my eggs in one basket.” Nothing personal here, diverge the subject. He was good at this.

Minerva sniffed indignantly. “She’s not just any new player, Severus. Miss Potter has clearly inherited her father’s talents, and I look forward to seeing her performance.”

Ah James Potter. The way he strutted off his broom at the end of matches, acting like he owned the place. Even thinking about the name brought an entire wave of loathing crashing into Severus’s chest, and he felt his wand twitching with the impulse of cursing something. Pity the man was dead. The dead can pick no fights.

“I wonder who bought her that broom?” Severus said tauntingly. Enough about the Potters. Both the big one and the small one gave him enough headaches. “Last time I checked, first years weren't allowed to bring their brooms.”

“The rule book only said that first years aren’t allowed to **bring** their brooms, but if someone bought it for them at school, surely they are allowed to use it.” Minerva replied smugly. “All those years of being acquaintances with you has rubbed off on me. You should be proud.” There was a slight smile on the corner of her mouth.

Severus almost spluttered. Picking up his binoculars, he turned his attention back to the match.

Flint was doing a good job, perhaps a little too obvious with that block on Miss Potter, almost infringing on the border of being penalized. Subtlety was a skill the young Slytherin has not picked up yet. Severus thought about dropping him a hint of distracting Hooch first before he committed another act like that.

He was further exploring possible options in his mind when he noticed something wrong with Miss Potter. Her broom was tossing and turning in the air. For a split second Severus thought that perhaps Potter was showing off (Merlin knows James Potter did that enough), but when he saw the girl lose her grasp and almost slam face first into her broom handle, he realized that no, she wasn’t. She was hanging on for dear life.

Nothing could have been wrong with the broom; Minerva would never have allowed her lions to come anywhere to harm. So the only remaining possibility was that someone was jinxing it. Easy conclusion to reach: except that there were probably hundreds of people in the pitch right now. Saving Miss Potter’s sorry neck is the priority.

A spell would be impossible; from this distance he could easily hit her. It would have to be a chant that secured the general area. Without knowing the specific jinx the caster is using, it would be impossible for him to use the specific anti-jinx, but there was a few general ones he could try. He reached down into himself and felt his core of magic, steadily thrumming with his heartbeat. With a bit of gentle tugging, the familiar flow gushed through his body as he concentrated fully on Miss Potter.

“Spiritibus caeli mi nimirum utor vocatio ad magica et ad imperium…”

Bending over the cauldron and whispering some magic-infused words was not chanting; real chanting required the user to sacrifice part of their magic and call the elements to use in exchange. For many, it was considered the dark arts with its uncanny resemblance to making exchanges with the devil.Severus would not blame them; plenty has ended up with permanent loss of magic when the elements back fired on them. He has not chanted since he came to Hogwarts as a professor; Dumbledore had forbidden anything of the sort, amongst which the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts, for fear of letting him slip back into his old ways.

_I trust you, Severus, but better to not offer up the temptation…_

Miss Potter seemed to be regaining her hold on the broom as the shaking visibly calmed a notch. He continued chanting.

“Fire! Severus, you’re on fire!” Sprout suddenly shrieked next to him, knocking into a whole section of people behind her as she hastily distanced herself from him.

Instinctively he stood up and looked down — oh no he broke eye contact no no no — and then Miss Potter was holding on with only one hand falling falling falling— a cushioning spell was on the tip of his lips—but then her broom stopped jerking and Miss Potter limberly climbed back on.

“Aguamenti!” A huge jet of water erupted from the end of Sprout’s wand, dousing Severus completely. He looked at her incredulously. “Sorry, err, got a bit excited. But how in Merlin’s pants did you catch on fire Severus?”

How **did** he. What a very interesting question. Someone had to be close distance to do it; if it was a flying spell he would definitely noticed it. He glanced warily at the Gryffindor stands, but there was so much commotion and cheering for their precious seeker it was hard to see any faces that stood out in the crowd of unmemorable bland faces. Perhaps it was another one of the Weasley’s pranks.

Also, Harriet Potter had plenty of enemies out there in the world, but here at Hogwarts? Brooms were magically hard to enchant; all brooms are warded against the most common spells before even coming off the production line. Whoever had done it had to be extremely proficient at magic, the dark kind as well. No student of Hogwarts would have been able to master this kind of rare magic. That leaves only the professors. Severus wouldn't trust most of this lot with his life, but trusting Miss Potter’s life with them was an entirely different matter. He was the outsider shooting accusations here; they had been the ones who vigorously bleed, lost, died, but still fought against the Dark Lord in the war.

Quirrell. It had to be him. He is the only variant, the new person in the grand stage as the curtain rose. If so, the man’s intentions were well-hidden behind his act of whimpering and weakness. But that had already proven to be a facade as the events of Halloween had unfolded, hence could the desire for the stone be another layer to obscure probing looks from the man’s one true intention of getting his hands on Miss Potter? Then he remembered the grimace on the girl’s face when she looked at him on the Grand Feast, her hand shooting to her scar. He had pondered for a few nights the significance of this; after all the scar was no ordinary scar, given that it bore such an intimate connection to the Dark Lord. Perhaps she had sensed the dark mark on him? But then it never happened again, even when he held the girl under concentrated glares in class. It didn’t make sense.

Except, during the feast, she hadn't been just looking at him was she? Quirrell had been sitting next to him as well.

The puzzle pieces clicked into place like well-oiled gears locking into together. My own foolishness, cursed Severus, my ignorance in underestimating the enemies, had almost cost everything. Quirrell was still sitting a few paces behind him as the Quidditch match went on around them. Not here though, his wand arm’s muscle tightened imperceptibly. As Miss Potter lightly dropped on to the grass and coughed out the snitch below, in the dark my fangs will be open and prepared to strike, Severus thought.


	5. Truths and Tears

“I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.”

― **A Farewell to Arms,** Ernest Hemingway

“Severus, please sit down,” Albus Dumbledore was sitting placidly in the grand armchair, hands light enfolded over each other on the mahogany table. “Would you like a cup of tea for nerves?”

“I’ve warned you, Albus—I’ve warned you about that man, and yet you still trust him and keep him inside Hogwarts’ gates—” Severus anxiously paced about in the Headmaster’s office, fighting a desire to knock some intricate equipment off the shelf.

“I assume you are talking about our dear professor Quirrell?” Albus sat forward a little bit, leaving the back of his chair. But his expression still remained perfectly placid. “Please calm down my boy. I would gladly remind you that I had been the one to tell you to keep an eye on the man, but surely you remember that?”

Severus flounced down in one of the chairs opposite to Albus’s. He pushed aside a platter of raspberry scones Albus offered him.

“Today at the Quidditch match,” Severus began, calmer but voice still laced with remnants of anger, “I am positively certain Quirrell had tried to break Miss Potter’s neck by jinxing her broom.”

The calm look in Dumbledore’s eyes hardened to something fierce behind those half-moon spectacles.

“Dare I say that Miss Potter is alright?”

“Naturally I did whatever I had to.” Severus snapped.

Albus’s eyes bored right into his, and Severus controlled himself not to flinch as he felt the man’s gaze penetrate him straight to the bone.

“While I am certainly glad that you have saved Miss Potter’s life, once again may I add,” Albus’s hands formed into a clasp beneath his chin, “the ends do not justify the means. I think it’s best if old temptations do not resurface and haunt our present. Given the circumstances I do understand, but please do not think of this as an excuse.”

Sometimes, Severus couldn't tell whether Albus Dumbledore was too good at legilimency, or if he was simply a brilliant observer with powerful magic capable of picking up traces.

He nodded curtly.

“If professor Quirrell had indeed attacked Harriet, then a certain dark wizard may be expected behind all this.”

It had been more than ten years that they had actually talked about the matter, and even back then Dumbledore had been certain that the Dark Lord was never truly vanquished and some day he would return. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon…the wheels of fate creaked mercilessly on. Icy fingers wound their way up Severus’s spine, streaks of fear erupting like the roots of a tree in their path. He repressed the feeling.

“Apparently. Would this compromise my…position?”

“As for now…I do not think so,” Dumbledore gravely said. “It is far too soon for him to have any sort of physical entity…think of him as a whisper in the dark, or a luring tendril of evil, testing those weak-minded.”

Severus sighed inaudibly. He thought back to a certain summer in Tibet, where he had lived for a month with only wild llamas as companion. That seemed such a long time ago.

“We must not let our guard down though. Though Quirrell is merely a pawn under the demise of Voldemort,” _A shock of physical discomfort shot up his arm_ , but Dumbledore continued uninterruptedly, “we do not yet know what role he plays. Severus, I need you to find out what Quirrell is actually planning. Can you do that?”

The previously released tension returned to his shoulders. “As it is my job, Albus.” Something nagged him in the back of his mind. How was the stone connected to all of this though? Quirrell’s interest in it had appeared to be genuinely authentic. His mind flitted to a certain page in a hidden book somewhere in the restricted section of the library.

_…the Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal…_

Immortality. The Dark Lord had been craving that…even to the moment before his downfall.

“The Dark Lord intends to use the stone for himself. And Quirrell is going to help him get it.” Severus declared.

“Well deducted.” Albus beamed. “I had just made the connection myself not a few moments ago.”

“But how? The gimmicks you had us put up; I doubt they would be able to block anyone with any decent level of magic for more than an hour.” Severus certainly had at least given his trial some thought; he couldn’t really say the same for others.

“I have my own plans, Severus. I would not worry you to burden yourself.” Albus said.

There it was again, the bloody sense of mystery. It was pointless to try to get the headmaster to reveal any secrets he didn’t want to, so Severus reached into the platter and forcefully crushed a scone. Albus looked at the crumbs mournfully.

“Then…what about the girl?” After a moment, Severus asked.

“Well Miss Potter has thrived well enough under your watch, hasn’t she?” This comment resulted in a vicious look from Severus.

“I would hardly call almost falling a few hundred feet from the air a **thriving-well** situation. I can’t lose—you need to keep an eye on her.” He barely realized his tone rising by degrees as the sentence ended.

A long pause reigned before Dumbledore spoke again, leaving the last words of Severus hanging in the air. “The feeling of loss has been an old familiar friend for me. But for now, we can only watch and observe.” Then the old man sighed, stood up and bustled in eye-blinding maroon robes over to the large window. There he looked out, gaze unfocused and apparently lost in thought. It’s a hint to leave.

On his way out, Severus stopped and turned back at the Headmaster, wanting to say something, to at least show his dissatisfaction at this arrangement, but he stopped. In the shivering light of the flames echoed on Albus Dumbledore’s face, there was something shiny in the corner of his eye.

Severus quietly closed the door and left.

—————————————————

The minute Harriet landed on the ground, she had been greeted by a swarm of Gryffindor red and gold; Hermione and Ron rushing at the forefront. Then the swarm had swept her up; hands were energetically thumping on her back and giving hearty congratulations, voices were chanting her name and screaming “Potter for president!”, and everywhere she looked people wanted to embrace her.

Harriet grinned ear to ear. She instinctively still didn’t like crowds much, but her body was learning to tell the difference between enemies and friends and there was no more physical urge to escape.

“Harriet—go change, there’s something we have to tell you and it’s really important—” Hermione had struggled over to Harriet’s side and was pushing her in the direction of the locker room.

“Alright, I guess I’ll see you guys later!” Slightly relieved for an excuse to leave, Harriet waved to the rest of her teammates; the twins raised their bats in response and winked.

Once in the girl’s locker room, a blanket of quietness fell across the room, separating it from the roaring crowds outside. Angelina wasn't there, possibly in the hospital wing getting her elbow checked, so Harriet was alone in the locker room. She sniffed her nose contently as she sat down and sat her broom down on the ground next to her, picking on the leather straps on her armguard. It had been really cold in the pitch with winds howling hundreds of feet up high, but her rush of adrenaline had kept her going. Merlin, she hasn’t even sweated. Only now that she has returned to the warmth of the ground did Harriet realize how numb her legs had become, the muscles stiff from being locked in a holding position in the game.

Holding on. Because her broom was trying to throw her off.

The culprit certainly looked very innocent, lying on the ground like that. If the twigs on the bottom had been a little more fanned out, Harriet was sure Aunt Petunia would not have hesitated at all to hold it and use it to sweep the floor. She picked it up and laid it on her lap, absentmindedly rubbing her fingers on the waxed and shiny surface and coming to a stop over the engrave golden letters at the top of the broom handle. _Nimbus 2000._ A gift from professor McGonagall. There’s no way the lovely, strict and fierce professor would give Harriet a sabotaged gift. Plus, there was not really a motive for her either; the people who had most to gain from her losing a match was the Slytherins. That’s it. It’s definitely the Slytherins, some evil snake who had jinxed her broom and tried to kill her.

Angrily tugging off her leggings and throwing them in a pile with her armguards, Harriet pulled her sweater over her head, hearing the spitting crackles of static electricity and knowing that her hair is probably as messy as a bird’s nest right now. She had been trying to grow it longer to see if it made the tangled curls better, but right now she was too pissed to care. Scooping up all the stuff in one giant bundle and sticking her Nimbus under her armpit, one firm kick to the door of the locker room opened it. Harriet marched out in search of Hermione and Ron.

They were waiting right outside the locker room. In fact the flying door would have caught Ron on the face if he hadn’t hurriedly jumped back.

“Harriet! Your broom was cursed, we found out something, but not here,” Hermione’s voice dropped to a whisper as she eyed the remnants of the Gryffindor crowd gathered around some of the other players who had just came out of the boy’s locker room.

“Yeah great, I’d been trying to figure out who wanted to killed me,” Harriet growled.

“I swear Harriet, it’s the slimy git—” Ron didn't get to finish his sentence as Hermione clapped her hand over his mouth.

“Not here!” She hissed. “Do you want people to hear? It could get us in trouble!”

“Let’s go for a walk on the grounds, the people from the match would have already came back. We can go to Hagrid’s hut.” Harriet said. “Hagrid was there at the match wasn’t he? Plus Hagrid is really nice and I trust him.” There was also a small pang of regret in her heart that she had not hanged out more with the gamekeeper this year; apart from the occasional invitation to tea she had almost never went to Hagrid’s place voluntarily.

Hagrid did look rather surprised as he opened the door, but his expression immediately became a hearty grin as he moved aside from the entrance and ushered them inside. Fang barked a warm welcome next to the cackling furnace. Harriet made a beeline for the cushion next to Fang, rubbing its large head and tickling it behind the ears as she snuggled next to it. Hermione primly sat down on the large sofa with Ron, her expression solemn.

“So, what brings yeh three here?” Hagrid started pouring steaming tea into four large, slightly chipped porcelain mugs.

Hermione crossed her arms. “Hagrid, you saw how Harriet’s broom lurched around during the match right? And how you said a student couldn’t have done it?”

Harriet’s heart missed a beat as Hagrid nodded. Who could it be if it wasn’t a student?

“Yeh, no student can have that sorta magic level, I don’t think so.”

“Well,” Hermione continued, “I saw Snape doing something. He was staring fixedly at Harriet and also muttering something under his breath. And I’ve read that unbroken eye contact is a primary rule to trying to jinx someone—”

“Wait, wait,” Hagrid threw up his big hands, “are you trying to say that Snape jinxed Harriet’s broom? But that can't be, bloke’s a ruddy Hogwarts teacher!”

“No Hagrid! I know a jinx when I see one! I’ve read all about them in books—and Snape matches every description!” Hermione said hotly.

“Rubbish! said Hagrid. “Why would Snape do somethin’ like that?”

Hermione looked like a ready-to-erupt volcano, and lava seemed to be already seeping out of her even more frizzled than usual hair. Ron hurriedly pushed a steaming tea cup at Hermione, and her complexion relaxed a tad bit as she took the giant cup in her hands and sipped gingerly at the fragrant jasmine tea. The temporary silence didn't last long though; Hermione’s attention briskly turned in Harriet’s direction.

“Harriet, what about you? Have you found out anything? Harriet?”

Harriet snapped out her contemplating trance. Snape was trying to kill her by jinxing her broom? But that didn’t make sense. He could have just NOT saved her from the troll by sending his spells seconds later, or locked the door on her when she went to thank him and turn her into one of those slimy things floating in the jars aligned in the potions classroom; Filch would not have batted an eyelash. The motives and the actions don’t match up.

“Harriet are you okay?” Hermione was still asking.

“Oh, errr no. I mean, I’m fine. I was just thinking.” Harriet shifted her position in the cushion uneasily.

“We were saying—did you find out anything?” Hermione pursued relentlessly. Everyone in the room turned an expectant eye on Harriet.

The immense pressure was forbidding; Harriet swallowed nervously. Snape had been trying to get past the three-headed dog they found on the third floor, but that didn't have anything to do with Harriet. Also she could still feel the look he gave her when she had promised that she wouldn’t tell anyone; first it had been calculating and doubtful, but then it had settled down into a brittle layer of acceptance. Acceptance that she should hold her word and keep the secrets to herself.

“About Snape? No I haven’t, ” discomfort swelled in her heart at having to lie to her friends, but Harriet’s voice did not quiver. “I had thought that it would be a Slytherin student who did this…but now that you’ve said that students aren’t capable of this…it can only be a teacher right?”

In the corner, Hagrid sucked in his breath loudly. Hermione and Ron shivered.

“But…I don’t think it’s Snape who did it…” Harriet said slowly. Ron’s eyes widened while Hermione’s narrowed. “Ron, you remember the time he saved us? I mean he could have just let us die…if he wanted to kill me he’s already had his chance.”

Ron frowned and started to say something, but Hermione cut across him.

“Harriet! Snape is a professor of Hogwarts; he was simply doing whatever any other professor would have done!”

Harriet shrugged. She knew there was a small part of her that did not agree with Hermione, but she knew better than to argue with Hermione when she’s angry.

“Harriet, you should tell yer Head of House about this, professor McGonagall right? Minerva is a good soul, she really likes ye Harriet. Or go to professor Dumbledore, he’s always the bes’ choice. This ain’t no easy matter, if a professor of Hogwarts want to do ye harm.” Hagrid said very seriously.

The furrow between Hermione’s brows did not lighten. “Is all magic school supposed to be like this? First the troll, then this.” She gestured at Harriet.

Ron tilted his head at the wooden ceiling of the hut as he rolled his eyes. “I mean Fred and George encountered a band of flesh-eating pickles in an empty classroom in their first year, and then there was a half-corporeal ghost who tried to strangle them in their second year….I figured that maybe they made the pickles up, but after a troll and three-headed dogs, I thought you would have gotten used to this, Hermione.”

Hermione had started to snap something that sounded like “Forgive me if I don’t share your understanding of magic” when Hagrid’s booming voice drowned out her answer.

“Wait, did ye just say a three-headed dog? How did ye know about Fluffy?”

Ron looked extremely sheepish, but Harriet pounced on Hagrid’s answer.

“Fluffy?”

“Yeah—he's mine—bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year—I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the stone—oh wait” Hagrid hurriedly clapped his hand over his mouth, much like what Hermione had done to Ron.

“So there’s a stone involved?” Harriet prompted on.

“Now, don't ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly. “That's top secret, that is. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel —”

“Aha!” said Harriet, “so there's also someone called Nicolas Flamel, is there?”

Hagrid looked furious with himself.

—————————————————

“Professor Snape, my mother would like to invite you for the annual Christmas dinner, and she would be delighted if you could attend.” Potions had just ended, and the pale young Malfoy, every single hair sleekly brushed back, was standing in front of his desk and doing a desperate attempt at upholding the necessary social etiquette. But Severus could see the boy tittering with anticipation. He had never been exactly kind to the boy, but he suspected that sometimes Draco used him as personal needs of releasing emotions appropriate of children his age, given that the barriers Lucius set are unreasonably high sometimes. By Salazar, Severus could swear that he had coddled the boy as an infant more times than Lucius did himself. Not that Severus cared. He just didn't care enough to reprimand the boy when he would let slip actions that are highly-unMalfoyly.

_Admit it Severus, are you feeling compassion towards the boy?_

_No._

“Please send my regards to Narcissa and tell her she will not be disappointed.”Each year Narcissa had one Christmas dinner, more of a banquet than the implied family gathering, filled with other pure-blood families, distant Malfoy relatives, important connections that needed to maintained. Severus was sure that his position as a Hogwarts teacher was hardly enough to earn him a seat at this banquet, not that he enjoyed these occasions anyways, but ever since the practice had started in 1982, Narcissa had been adamantly sending invitations his way every year. The true intentions of Narcissa inviting him had never been revealed to him, but he knew better to turn her down. One particular Christmas when he had done that, she had sent a string of letters his way accusing him in the most deploring ways appropriate of a lady.

Now that he recalled it, Narcissa had always demonstrated a more partial side to Severus in the years at Hogwarts, despite her being several years older. Since the one time in 4th year when she had stumbled upon his secret reading spot behind greenhouse number 7, she had frequently plagued him with her existence. Gathering the folds of her skirt in one hand and sitting down (perhaps a little less elegant than her usual appearance) in the grass a few feet away from Severus, Narcissa would talk of the expectations her family places on her, the ebbing and flowing of power struggles, her determined efforts at gaining the attention of a certain Malfoy. Usually Severus’s head remained buried in his book, either not knowing how to respond or actually not paying attention. The woman had deemed him with one-sided confidentiality, most likely because she knew Severus had no one to spill the secrets to anyways. It hardly surprised Severus that within a year of graduating from Hogwarts, with a flourish of her dress, Narcissa had married Lucius Malfoy and became Mrs Malfoy, the role that she had always been born to play.

“Mother says she will be inviting several new families this year,” say Draco with an air of boredom, “but then you won’t really be interested in that, would you?” The boy sighed and looked to the side. Severus imagined Draco looking a bit wistful.

“Hardly not. Don’t you have something better to do?”

“It’s not like there’s anything to do with the holidays coming up anyways.” Draco yawned, but stopped at Severus’s look of _I’m perfectly willing to give you another 20 inches of homework_. “I bid you good day then, professor Snape.” The boy said, slinging his bag one-sidedly on his back and leaving out the door.

Severus watched the door swing shut. Then he sent the scrolls the students had neatly piled on his desk flying into his office with a wave of his wand, pushed his red marking ink into the drawer, and locked it with another wave. Miss Potter had looked absolutely depressed in class today, positively clinging onto Granger and not even rising to another of Draco’s taunts. Severus pondered for a moment what is going on in that mind of hers before shrugging it off dismissively, sweeping out of the classroom the same direction Draco did.

Heading towards the staffroom, Severus had only proceeded half way up the stairs when he noted his path entirely blocked by a giant fir tree.

He heard Granger’s voice shrilly coming from the other side. “You’re welcome to move yourself Malfoy! It’s not like we’re blocking your path!”

Looking around, Draco’s pale blonde hair was visible out of the dark greens of the fir tree. “How dare you talk to me like that, you filthy mudblood!”

The word broke some thread of rationality in his head; even the fir tree startled with surprise. Then Severus managed to discern the mangle bushy hair of Hagrid; apparently he was the one responsible for carrying the fir tree but somehow had gotten it stuck on the stairs. The gamekeeper’s face was turning livid.

“Malfoy! who, who taugh’ ye that language! Apologize to Hermione this instant!” Hagrid’s voice was rough with anger.

“Reducio,” Severus hissed. The fir tree shrunk into an average size, revealing a shocked Hagrid, a sneering Draco, and Miss Potter who’s holding Granger’s hand, both looking very confused and surprised at seeing him.

Draco’s sneer grew even more derisive the moment the boy set eyes on him, but when he said coldly, “Do not use that word, Malfoy,” the boy’s expression changed to pure shock.

“Is there a need to repeat myself?”

Draco’s mouth closed with a visible snap. He gingerly shook his head, a look of utter betrayal mingled with hurt written plainly on his face.

Severus turned and strode down the stairs, heading straight for his chamber in the dungeons. The worst of memories was erupting out of him, threatening to spill out of his heart, tearing at the walls of confinement—

The door flew open in front of him with a bang. The ache deep down inside of him dragged him over to the book shelves, where he tore out the volumes with frenzy, completing disregarding the messy state they lay in piled heaps around his feet, looking for the one book with the gold threads wound on the green cover—Ahh. There it was. _La Cousine Bette._ Now that he actually had the book in his hand, he was afraid to open it, knowing what it contained.

A deep breath shook the man’s frame, as he sighed and leaned against the shelf, forehead pressed against the cool wood, eyes closed with some unfathomable emotion. Then he turned slowly, sliding down against the shelf until he was sitting on the cold silent dungeon stones amidst the fallen books from earlier. The fingers relaxed their grasp on the book, and the pages fell open to the place where he has turned to so many times before; a single ripped photograph lay blanketed between the yellowing pages.

Lily’s face smiled up to him. But she wasn’t smiling at him, she was smiling at the torn emptiness of the other half of the photograph, the one with James Potter and the girl. This, this broken creation of his own selfishness, was all he had.

There was so much he wanted to say.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, fingers reaching out to touch the image frozen in the cycle of time. She would always be there, smiling to some unknown happiness, hair slightly ruffled as she held her family in beloved gazes. She would never hear his apology.

Splotches of wet splashed on to the photograph.

Several floors and stone walls away in the Gryffindor tower, Harriet was lying glassy-eyed, staring at the ceiling of her four poster canopy bed and tracing the wrinkles in the velvet curtains. Hermione wasn't here; she had hurried out of the room with a loud gasp before Harriet could ask her what was going on. She seemed fine though, hardly bothered despite Hagrid explaining the meaning of mud blood to them (Harriet was sure she would have socked Malfoy in the jaw if he had called her that), her mind focused on something else.

_“I do feel so sorry, for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home.”_

Hermione was wanted at home; her mom was insistent that she should see her baby girl again in the letter she received at breakfast. Her friend had been so sorry that she had to leave Harriet behind for Christmas, promising her with gifts she will bring back with her, but that didn’t fill the emptiness Harriet felt in her heart at all. And then Malfoy had said that in potions class today. That’s right, she didn't have a home to go to. She didn't give two knuts about the Dursleys, rather, Harriet was thinking about her real parents. Lily and James Potter. After she had made the sharp mistake of calling aunt Petunia “mommy” and seeing the withdrawal on aunt Petunia’s face as she sharply said “I’m not your mother!”, the woman had brutishly told her her mother and father’s name and then told her to never ask about them again. The memory stung.

There had been a period when Harriet was younger that she used to fantasize about how her parents were powerful people who had to mysteriously fake their deaths and abandon her for some unspeakable reason, and one day they would appear on the porch and smother her with kisses of love. It had taken an entire day locked up in the cupboard without food and water on her 6th birthday when she accidentally smashed one of aunt Petunia’s favorite vases, that she realized no one was coming for her. Harriet stopped fantasizing about her parents after this. Now that she had found her way into their world, it reignited her passion, but she still didn't really know anything about them at all.

Her mother’s maiden name must have been Lily Evans, because she had seen “Petunia Evans” scribbled on an old scratch book she found in the Dursley’s garage while she was cleaning it out. Lily Evans. Harriet murmured the name to herself; it was such a pretty name. Her mother must have been a radiant soul whose laughter chimed with the flowers in the wind. And James Potter. Just saying the name felting like giving her strength, and she imagined a young man laughing wildly as he soared on a broom. She slowly brought her fingers to her face. Hagrid had told her she has her mother’s eyes. But that wasn’t enough, and she couldn’t place a face on either of her parents. The figures in her imagination remained faceless and blurry, like someone had smudged out all of their features with a harsh thumb.

She dragged her blanket up and over her face, the wetness forming on her pillow slowly choking her breath out.


	6. Ghost of Christmas Past

_To think of time—of all that retrospection!_

_To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward!_

__

_Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue?_

_Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?_

_Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you?_

__

_Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?_

_If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing._

__

_To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women_

_were flexible, real, alive! that everything was alive!_

_To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our_

_part!_

_To think that we are now here, and bear our part!_

— **_To Think of Time_** , Walt Whitman

Harriet had stayed in the Gryffindor common room after she saw Hermione off early morning(with many hugs of course); both Parvatil and Lavender had chosen to go back home for Christmas, and the silence was too suffocating in the dorm alone. The common room was adorned with ribbons of festive red and yellow, Christmas bobbles and sprigs of holly hanging from the mantlepiece; there was even a small sled pulled by wispy smokes of reindeer whizzing around the ceiling, sprinkling golden dust in its wake. She chose to curl up in front of one of the couches next to the dying embers of the fire, watching as an occasional student would come down from the dormitories, dragging their trunks behind them as they vanished out of the portrait hole. Hedwig flew out of her dormitory and came to join her, trilling softly as she nibbled at a lock of Harriet’s hair. Normally owls are not allowed in the Gryffindor tower, but Harriet had secretly let her in through the window of her dorm, figuring that there was really no one around to catch her anyways.

The pale silvery light of dawn had turned to a generous shower of warmth as sunlight poured down from the windows above; and Harriet still hasn't moved. She had contemplated between heading out to see Hagrid, the curling tendril of smoke from the hut’s chimney was a clear indication that the gamekeeper too had an early morning rise, or going back to bed and sleeping the rest of the day off. However, the gentle sleepiness sprouted by the soft cushions on the couch had prompted her to do neither; she was too relaxed to head out or go to bed. There was nothing to be done either, Hermione had already rushed Harriet through all the major homework in the past few days while previewing at least 7 more chapters on _Hogwarts: A History_ ; all that remained was another 10 inches of transfiguration where they had to discuss the specific channeling of magic through wand movement and collection of asphodel, dittany and wiggentree bark for potions. Harriet was confident she could get both tasks done in a day, seeing how she has already finished the essay describing the uses of the Wiggenweld Potion. She didn’t enjoy writing about potions almost as much as she liked brewing them, it’s like asking a good chef exactly how much salt he uses for each dish; it’s more of a feeling rather than precise measurements.

So she sat there, and would have probably stayed in the same position for much longer had not Ron came down the stairs, holding a lumpy parcel under his arm. Bleary-eyed, Ron yawned exaggeratedly.

“Whatcha doing up so early, Harriet?” Ron asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Have you seen any scissors around here? I’m having trouble opening this,” he gave the parcel a shake, “but I reckon it’s just another one of mom’s sweaters. She always makes maroon for me, no matter how many times I tell her I hate the color.”

Harriet shook her head. “No I haven’t, but I know a trick if you don’t mind,” She gestured at Ron’s parcel, which was apparently bound by plastic ropes. Ron yawned a second time and tossed the parcel into her lap, crashing down into the couch next to her.

The ropes were thick, but they were no match for Harriet. With a well-practiced rip the rope broke between her teeth, and she made quick work of the rest, tossing the parcel back to Ron. Ron watched with fascination.

“Wow, that’s cool mate! My mom would never let me do that—say I had to be proper and use scissors or she’d hit me with her cooking ladle—but whatever.” He shrugged nonchalantly, “Nicely done.”

Harriet grinned, remembering the plump ginger-haired lady from the train station and imagining her chasing after a frantic Ron, holding a wooden ladle in her hand.

“Did you also get a sweater from her? Mom asked about your favorite color in the last letter and told me to keep it a secret, but I reckon now that you have it—wait, did you get it?” Ron stopped abruptly.

“Umm like a present you mean?” Harriet asked. She had never gotten a present in her life (that was unless you counted the ugly orange hoodie that was too small for Dudley given to her on her 10th birthday).

Ron nodded earnestly. “Go check the foot of your bed! That’s where the house elves leave them, we could never afford one but I’ve heard that a whole bunch of them works for Hogwarts. I’ll wait for you here!”

Harriet dashed up to her dorm, heart beating a frantic pattern at the top of her throat. Would someone actually have given her Christmas gifts?

There was indeed a pile in front of her bed. It wasn’t a large pile, but it was a genuine pile. Scooping everything up in her arms, with a spring in her step she marched down the stairs to find Ron, who had also brought his Christmas gifts down with him and was now happily munching on some chocolate.

She gently set her gifts down on the couch before sprawling down cross-legged on the floor next to them.

The first parcel she picked up was a crumpled thick brown paper parcel, roughly scrawled across with untidy handwriting, “To Harriet, from Hagrid”. Inside was a clearly hand-carved wooden flute. Harriet tried blowing on it, and it made a sound like an owl hooting. Hedwig looked up sharply from her perch where she had been sitting all morning as if expecting a fellow owl, but as she identified the source she looked indignant and poked her head under her wing.

A second, very small parcel contained a note, those cheap kinds you can buy at a random grocery store. “We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.” Taped to the note was a fifty-pence piece.

“That's friendly,” said Harriet.

Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence.

“Weird!" he said, chewing through a large box of chocolates he had got, “NMat a shape! This is money?”

“You can keep it,” said Harriet, laughing at how pleased Ron was. “Hagrid and my aunt and uncle —so who sent these?”

“Yeah that’s the one I was talking about,” said Ron, turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy parcel. "My mom. I told her you didn't expect any presents and she insisted — oh, yep," he groaned, “she has really made you a Weasley sweater."

Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of homemade fudge.

“Every year she makes us a sweater," said Ron, looking down at his maroon sweater with a grimace. But he pulled it over his head anyways. Harriet did the same with hers. The sweater was large and lumpy, with cabling patterns hemming the bottom and sleeves so long only her fingertips poked out of the ends when she stretched.

“I love it.” Harriet stated.

Ron blushed even pinker at that.

She reached for the fudge and popped one into her mouth. It was warm and thick, the sweetness making Harriet’s hair stand on end.

Her next present was from Hermione—Harriet was rather surprised; how had Hermione managed to deliver her a present when she had just left this morning? But still it was rather telltale with the neat packaging and the matching ribbon in color—Hermione had also chosen an emerald green wrapping paper. Harriet decided for sure that this was her favorite color now. A neat card was attached to the front of the parcel. In it, it read:

Dear Harriet,

I hope this arrives in time. I am not very confident in the owl express, but I hope you like what you find in there! It reminded me of you when I saw it in the mail catalog the other day, and Professor McGonagall helped me to figure out how to place an order using a school owl; that was what I was doing the other night. Again, I promise I will bring back many more gifts for you when I come back.

Much love,

Hermione.

It was signed with Hermione’s usual dainty signature. Harriet marveled how she managed to never smudge the ink when she was writing; Harriet’s essays were almost always botched in at least 2 places.

She carefully unwrapped the paper to reveal a box inside; opening it she saw a large fluffy snow owl plush. It looked like an exact replica of Hedwig, with strips of black decorating the wings and bright yellow eyes. The plush was soft to the touch and Harriet instantly couldn’t get her hands off it.

Ron looked at it nonchalantly. “My sister’s got one like it. But her’s pink. Figure all girls like this sort of stuff?”

Harriet rolled her eyes at him, but she couldn’t deny that she is loving the plush more every second. She reached for the last parcel left on the sofa. It was very light, and she unwrapped it.

Something fluid and silvery gray fell onto her hands. It reminded her of fine silk sold at the luxury shop where aunt Petunia took her one time (obviously not to buy anything for her of course), except that this was even finer. It was almost hard to grasp.

Ron gasped.

“I've heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice, dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans he'd gotten from Hermione. “If that's what I think it is — they're really rare, and really valuable.”

“What is it?”

Harriet picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was strange to the touch, like water woven into material.

“It's an invisibility cloak,” said Ron, a look of awe on his face. “I'm sure it is — try it on.”

Standing up, Harriet threw the cloak around her shoulders and Ron gave a yell.

“It is! Look down!”

Harriet looked down at her feet, but they were gone. She wriggled her feet a bit nervously, and felt all her toes functioning just like usual. Except that she could not see them at all.

“There's a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of it!”

Harriet pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. Written in narrow, loopy writing she had never seen before were the following words:

Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.

It was not signed.

She flipped the letter over and examined it acutely, but it was made of the simplest of parchments and didn’t give a single clue. Still wearing the invisibility cloak, she shuffled back over to the sofa and picked up the wrapping where it had fell. It was thick dark blue paper with faint silver stars etched on it. Pretty, but nothing special at all.

“Know anyone who might be a fan of stars?” Harriet asked Ron, passing the paper over to him.

Ron shook his head.

Whoever sent her this wished to remain anonymous, that much was clear. But who would sent her something this valuable (judging from Ron’s reaction) but not take credit for it? She felt the old fantasies of hidden rich parents rear its head in the back of her mind, but she pushed it back down savagely.

_You are not a child anymore, Harriet. Read the note. What did it say about your father?_

_Right, this person knew your father before he died. Possibly a close friend, if they could give them something this valuable. So they would have known about your mother as well. Classmate of your father?_

_And then they said “it is time.” So it’s someone who only came into contact with you after you arrived in the magic world._

_Most likely you’re looking for someone old in the magic world then. Could be one of the professors at Hogwarts._

Running the list of Hogwarts professors through her head, Harriet was only able to eliminate the possibility of Snape. Silvery stars? If she ever saw the man using anything that emitted a cheery mood in the slightest, she would go and throw herself off the astronomy tower.

Which reminded her. Snape had chided Malfoy, his positive favorite, in front of their eyes? When Malfoy had been picking on them? What a merry Christmas indeed. “Mudblood” must had been such a terrible word for Malfoy to finally have lost it this time. Harriet clenched her fist, imagining it socking into Malfoy’s face with a satisfying squelch.

“Harriet? Harriet!” Ron was waving his hand before her eyes. Harriet’s attention snapped back to reality.

“Sorry, just thinking who could the person be,” she replied sheepishly.

“You drift off a lot eh, mate?” Ron grinned. “Mom said that only really smart people did that. Stop worrying about it and let’s eat some chocolate!”

Before Harriet managed to respond, the portrait hole was flung open and Fred and George bounded in. She hastily stuffed the invisibility cloak and the letter back into its package, not feeling quite ready to share this with anyone else yet. Between two howling Fred and George who had forced the sweater onto Percy, an annoyed Percy desperately trying to pin his falling glasses between his ear and shoulder, and an on-watching sniggering Ron, the mysterious package had been forgotten for now.

—————————————————

“Oh dear,” Narcissa Malfoy tittered, “do you have nothing better to wear, Severus? Always such dreadful dreary robes! And do you still cut your hair by yourself?” Dinner finished half an hour ago, and the guests were gathered in the grand parlor in small groups of three and four. House elves dressed in formal attire swooped in and out, precariously balancing ridiculously large trays laden with champagne and small desserts. Instead of entertaining her guests, Narcissa had come out to the balcony overlooking the rose garden below where Severus had been standing since dinner had ended. He could never bear the company anyways. They were too stupid.

“I believe time is better spent on other things,” Severus replied dryly. He could tell Narcissa was teasing.

She traipsed forwards a bit and rested her elbows on the railing, leaning out towards the garden below and looking out beyond, her body relaxed. Severus watched her movements out of the corner of his eye. Even after years, this woman still manages to surprise him.

“The roses are not blooming well this year,” she commented. Severus could see the few scattered dabs of red littered in the snow covered bushes below, blooming despite the cold winter. Magically enhanced species, most likely. And always blood red. He had never seen another different colored rose in Narcissa’s garden.

“Then get rid of them.” Botany was hardly his area of strong suit, except for plants in potions.

“It’s Christmas, be merrier.” That comment earned a spiteful look from Severus. “How’s Draco doing in school?” She turned an intent gaze on him. “He has hardly written back in the past semester.”

Severus looked back behind his shoulder. He could just make out the pale blonde hair of Draco standing in the parlor behind him, apparently talking with Miss Parkinson and some other children his age. Severus was not worried about the boy blubbering their little incident to anyone at all; at such a young age he had already developed a haughty sense of pride adequate for a Malfoy, and telling everyone he had been critiqued by the most terrifying Hogwarts professor Severus Snape would not add any bonus points to that. The boy had not spoken to him at all since the last incident, but Severus wasn’t planning to approach him. Younglings rarely have enough patience, and soon he will come to him demanding explanations.

“Nothing more than I would expect out of him.” Severus said. After a short pause, he continued with a bit of difficulty, “He seems to be…making friends.”

“I’m not worried.” Narcissa said lightly. Severus sometimes wondered whether if she didn’t know what a pompous brat her child can be, or if she knew but choose to tolerate it anyways. Since Draco’s birth he had noticed how she had been sentimentally more attached to the child, at least compared to Lucius Malfoy. The older Malfoy was plain abusive at times.

“In the first of the two letters he wrote, he wouldn’t stop talking about a certain Miss Potter who apparently bought out an entire trolley of candy on the Hogwarts express”, Severus almost snorted at this, “and left him with nothing. In the second letter, all he would talk about is her terrible sense of dress, her ignorant choice of friends, and her stupidity in class.” Despite the rather humorous nature of the event, Narcissa’s tone was serious. So this is what she had really wanted to talk to him about. “I take it the chosen girl had made it all the way to Hogwarts? Should I be concerned? Tell me, Severus, what is she like?”

Narcissa’s curiosity could imply many things. Severus was not sure what laid behind this sudden display of interest.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

_That’s not true though, is it? There is that faint sense of potential for trouble…and in potions, like her mother—No shut up._

He kept his voice even, retaining a light air of boredom verging on dislike. “A mere child with no specialty with what I have seen.”

“Nothing special?” Narcissa prompted.

“None whatsoever. I imagine Draco is merely…finding it hard to accept someone who did not obey his every whim.”

Narcissa sighed a soft sigh. “I do spoil him. Perhaps I love him too much.” This outburst of sentiment caught Severus unawares, as it was very unnatural for someone of Narcissa Malfoy’s position to openly show emotions. She continued: “So I need not worry about this girl? There has been rumors in secret alleys and behind closed doors…” she looked around her cautiously, “that Miss Potter could be the third Dark Lord…” The last words came out in a soft hush.

He’s heard that too.

_My dear Severus…The cold high snake-like voice rang from the waters of memory…except it wasn’t coming from Lord Voldemort, it was coming from Harriet Potter…_

He pushed the image aside.

“What did you expect a mere child of 12 to do?” Severus replied calmly. There were times he asked himself the same question too, a question that held no answer.

“I wonder how….” Turning away from him, Narcissa’s voice trailed off into the distance.

Severus heard what was at the end of the sentence, and once again he was shocked by the audacity of her to discuss it, even with him. After the first Wizarding War, the Malfoys had escaped unscathed with cleverly paid bribes, delicate pressure at the right points and a well-woven excuse. Ever since, they had avoided all association with the Dark Lord. That was the Malfoys, always quick to sniff out the winner and establish their allegiance with the strongest side. But the war has never ended, has it? Its hungering shadows had always been lurking in the corner…and now it was coming back.

At a loss for words, he reached inside his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long puff. Smoking was part of his muggle heritage, but he didn’t care much for the looks it would earn him. He rarely allowed himself to smoke; the idea that something other than his own brain was manipulating his actions was a revolting thought, but this evening was killing him already. Before he could take a second puff though, Narcissa had leaned over and sharply plucked the cigarette out of his fingers with the agility and accuracy of a tigress and tossed it over the railing.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Severus, those things would kill you? You don't want to end up like my father, do you?” Narcissa glared at him fiercely.

“When we are, death is not come, and, when death is come, we are not.” He replied. Severus supposed that he should be irritated by the woman’s sheer audacity, but he let it pass.

“Epicurus?”

Severus nodded.

“We may have to learn how to make the best of the time yet.” Narcissa sighed. “Tell me if anything unbecoming happens to Draco, will you?”

_You really should find someone more capable of the job, Narcissa._ But he nodded again anyways.

“Now will you escort me back inside?” Narcissa extended a slender arm clad in silvery blue velvet towards him. “I see Mrs Gibbon making an advance on my darling husband.”

He took up her arm and they advanced back into the room. Instead of making a beeline for her husband, Narcissa artfully navigated her way around the parlor in a roundabout circle, nodding little greetings and occasionally stopping to exchange a few remarks (“What a beautiful hat, Helle!”) at the various groups of people scattered across the parlor. Appearances are all nice and cozy, but Severus secretly suspected that Narcissa possessed enough knowledge to destroy any woman here should one dare to cross her. At last they arrived at Lucius Malfoy’s side, who was chatting amiably with Mrs Gibbon in the center of the parlor.

“My dear! Ah, Severus. How delightful.” Lucius Malfoy drawled in a perfect baritone. Narcissa artfully detached herself from Severus and instead wound her arm around Lucius who had already extended his with a well-practiced air. “You must listen to this absolutely amazing story Mrs Gibbon was telling me about. Something about dragon slaying in Norway?”

“Oh I am positively thrilled.” Narcissa said euphoniously, turning a radiant smile on Mrs Gibbon. But Severus could tell that daggers were hiding in that smile.

_It’s going to be a long night_ , he thought to himself.

It resulted in an extra cranky mood when he apparated back to his office in Hogwarts late that night, mentally bored to the point of exhaustion and smelling like Narcissa’s perfume. There had better be some ignorant unfortunate little brats snooping around the castle, he thought viciously as he began his nightly prowl. The hourglasses are going to lose quite a few points tonight. Hence, when Filch came hurrying around the corner, Severus almost grinned wickedly.

“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library Restricted Section.”

Interested choice to prowl about in the castle…sounds like something the fanatical Miss Granger would do. Except he do believe she has returned home for Christmas, unlike her little buddies Miss Potter and Mr Weasley…

“The Restricted Section? Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them.”

He strode down the narrow corridor with Filch closely behind him. A sharp turn at the corridor revealed a dead end, and Severus stopped in his tracks. A lone torch burnt on the opposite wall, but the flames were bright and the shadows clear. There was no one. Filch made a sound of disappointment.

“Could have sworn heard someone coming down this way…” Filch muttered, hobbling away with Miss Norris following behind his heels.

Severus paused for a moment. Then he turned, stalking back the way he came. The thought that perhaps tonight is not the night to be had just formulated in his mind when he caught a tremor of movement out the corner of his eye. It had come from inside the slightly ajar door of an empty classroom. He crept closer.

Only the unmistakable scraggily head of Miss Potter was poking out of thin air. The scene was so disturbing he almost jumped, but Miss Potter didn’t notice. Apparently her attention was fully attracted by the giant golden framed mirror in the center of the room. Then something slipped off and pooled around her feet, and Severus could see the rest of her, wearing a ridiculously large and ugly grey T-shirt that reached all the way to her skinny knees.

The invisibility cloak. Merlin knows how many times her foolish hunk of a father and his little buddies had used it to scare the shite out of him, jumping out of empty corners and giving him evil hexes…he thought it had been buried in the shattered rubble of Godric Hollow on that fateful night, but apparently not so. Who could have given it to the girl?

And now, her father’s heritage forgotten on the floor, Miss Potter was reaching out and touching the mirror, a look of great sadness and joy twisted strangely on her face.

_Obviously. The Mirror of Erised. Only Dumbledore could have left it here—the action was too deliberate; in all regards he was probably also the one who gave Miss Potter the cloak—question is, why did he want Miss Potter to see the Mirror?_

Miss Potter had now sunk to the floor on her knees, gazing up at the mirror. Severus couldn’t see anything; from what he knew, the mirror only worked for one. Was Miss Potter seeing herself defeating Voldemort? Becoming surrounded by fame and glory? Praises and pampering? He was on the verge of pushing the door open and knocking some sense into the girl when he was stopped dead in his tracks by a sob.

She had raised her hand to the glass, as if touching something invisible. He couldn't see her tears, but he could hear the muffled little chokes that escaped now and then. “Mom? Dad?” She whispered.

It was then he understood. She would be seeing Lily and James Potter, the parents she never had because of him. His entire frame was struck numb with countless emotions, grief—regret—sorrow—and an aching hollowness—

Time flowed by silently as he stood rooted to the spot, but then Miss Potter curled herself into a tiny ball in front of the mirror, hand still touching the surface. She looked so defenseless and vulnerable lying there, the undeserving intimacy struck him fiercely with the incongruity of the moment, and Severus hurriedly swept up his robes and left, not even stopping when he knocked into a stone knight a few corridors down which created a loud clatter in the silence of the night.

—————————————————

How long she lay curled up there, Harriet didn’t know, until a distant noise brought her back to her senses. She couldn't stay here, she had to find her way back to bed. She hungrily tore her eyes away from her gently smiling mother and her father, whose hand lay on her mother’s shoulder.

“I’ll come back,” she whispered, and hurried from the room.

That night, when she slept, hugging the snow white owl plush (Hedwig had taken one look at it and flew off angrily), she dreamt of her father tossing her high up in the sky then catching her, her mother laughing next to them while a large scampering orange cat with a squashed-in face streaked on the floor. For the first time, her parents had faces in her dreams.

Ron grumbled quite a bit in the morning when Harriet told him everything about the night before, and they went again to see the Mirror. He was quite happy when he saw himself in the mirror, apparently some sort of Quidditch captain or a head boy, but the next morning, his attitude changed completely.

“I know what you're thinking about, Harriet, that mirror. Don't go back tonight.” Ron said seriously, pushing aside the set of Wizarding Chess they had been playing a few minutes earlier.

“Why not?”

“I dunno, I've just got a bad feeling about it—and anyway, you've had too many close shaves already. Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering around. So what if they can't see you? What if they walk into you? What if you knock something over?”

“You sound like Hermione.” Harriet almost laughed.

“I'm serious, Harriet, don't go.” Ron crossed his arms. “I will sit here all night if I have to. Since I was a kid mom’s told plenty stories of horrible ending that happened to witches and wizards when they messed around with an artifact they don’t know. You don’t know what that mirror does, mate, I swear.”

But Harriet knew. It showed her her family, and she was willing to do anything to see them again. However, Ron’s determined expression made her nod an unmeant yes.

Late at night, she slipped out the portrait hole, gently closing it behind so not to wake the slumbering Fat Lady. This time she found her way much quicker to the empty classroom again, and there was her mother and father smiling back at her. Except—

“So—back again, Harriet?”

Harriet felt as though her insides had turned to ice. She looked behind her. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. She could have sworn she didn't see anyone when she walked in (how could one miss the brilliantly sparkling midnight blue robes decked with constellations?), but now the Headmaster of Hogwarts was sitting there a few feet away nonetheless.

“I didn’t see you, sir.”

_Oh no I am in so much trouble—_

“Strange how one ignores the obvious facts when they are intent on their destination,” Dumbledore smiled. A stone dropped back into Harriet’s stomach.

“Uhh,” Harriet bit her lip and tried to explain, gesturing towards the mirror, but Dumbledore raised his hands and cut across her gently.

“So,” said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harriet, “you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”

She had noticed the word inscribed on the frame of the mirror, but even though it consisted of English letters she could not understand it. Harriet simply nodded.

“I expect you’ve realized what it does by now?”

Harriet contemplated a moment about if she should tell Dumbledore about her parents, but the old man with twinkling eyes sitting cross-legged across from her emitted a trustworthy feeling. Harriet decided to go with her gut.

“I see my parents in them.” Harriet said. Is she imagining, or did the twinkle go out a little bit in Dumbledore’s eyes? “Did you know them, sir?” She asked hopefully.

“Yes, I knew them.” Dumbledore said. In the dark light of the classroom, Harriet couldn’t see Dumbledore’s face clearly, but the Headmaster no longer sounded kind. Instead, he sounded sad and solemn. “Your father was a brave man with night-roaming habits quite like you in fact, and your mother was a brilliant witch whose skills are admirable. I never had the fortune of teaching your mother herself, but I have heard unlimited praises from her professors.”

“Sir, what—what was it like? That night?” Harriet asked. She had to know.

“I’m sorry, my girl. I wasn’t there in time, and your parents were already gone when I arrived. It was a great loss to all.”

“You-know-who killed them.” Harriet said flatly. She supposed she should be breaking down with tears right now, but in the place where her heart beat, she felt nothing.

“It’s okay to say his name. Never fear a name, Harriet. Fear gives your enemies power.” Dumbledore paused, then gently reached out a hand and touched Harriet’s shoulder. “Your mother loved you very very much. The people who truly love us never leave us, because with their love they leave a little imprint on your soul that you carry with you for the rest of your life.”

Harriet looked up at the mirror where her parents where still smiling. In a way, her parents stilled lived on through her.

“Now Harriet, you must promise me to never go looking for this mirror again. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?”

Harriet stood up, ready to go when something struck her mind. “Did you give this cloak to me, Professor Dumbledore?”

Dumbledore looked slightly taken aback, but he smiled affably. “You are a very smart young witch, Harriet. Your father left it in my possession, and I thought it best for you to have it. However, you must endeavor to not use it to break too many rules.” The returning twinkle in his eyes said that he was not serious though. Harriet decided that she liked Professor Dumbledore quite a bit, which gave her courage to ask one more question.

“One last thing, Professor, may I ask what do you see when you look in the mirror?”

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”

Harriet stared.

“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

Harriet felt that Dumbledore was not quite truthful in this answer, but it was a rather personal question, she thought. Wrapping her cloak around her, she bid goodbye and left the room, leaving Professor Dumbledore sitting alone in the classroom with the Mirror. It was only when she was lying in bed did she realize that the whole incident had a rather deliberate feel to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took so long; hence why the extra bit of length! School is starting now and things are getting a little bit busier, but I am also totally excited to finally be approaching the climax of Book 1. 
> 
> I had so much fun writing the relationship between Narcissa Malfoy and Severus Snape. To me, I perceive their relationship as completely non-romantical, rather, they view each other as trustworthy companions for reasons even they don't quite understand (especially for Narcissa.) Narcissa would be less posh and Slytherinly high-up when she is with Severus, and Severus puts up with her occasional bossiness and remarks in ways that he isn't aware of.
> 
> Anyways, have fun reading!


	7. Read By Candlelight

Tonight I’ve watched

The moon and then

the Pleiades

go down

The night is now

half-gone; youth

goes; I am

in bed alone

—- **_Midnight Poem_** , Sappho

Where the sunlight from the high brown-tinted windows could not penetrate, darkened and aging volumes with covers made from materials that if known would put shivers up one’s skin lurked from the thick wood shelves, with eternally lit candles flickering below on tables that lined the shelves, too weak to expel the thick and dark air engulfing everything in it. In the places where sunlight did hit, if you peered at it from right angles you could dust speckles floating and shivering in the light, creating halos of warmer temperature that students always huddled in. When Harriet stood at the entrance of the library at the start of the main aisle, countless shelves on two sides packed with books all the way up to the ceiling met the eye. The front aisles were for common perusing, opened to all students, but a few dozens of rows back lay the restricted section that she had never been in, where the temperature suddenly dropped and a chilly wind blew outwards from inside, closed off by metal bars and a door with a thick iron lock. The place smelled like decaying paper and wet moss.

The first day Harriet set foot in the library, she had been held aside by a very serious Hufflepuff girl who told her never to go too far into the abyss of darkness, and a story where a first-grade girl like Harriet herself had decided to take on an adventure into the unknown, and was never seen again. Beware of the girl in the shadows, the Hufflepuff student said, you never know if you are talking to another student or…something else. If you look very carefully, and you see that she casts no shadow, take that as your cue to run. Harriet wasn’t scared at all, and rather felt sorry for the girl. Perhaps she just wanted to find someone to talk to. But every time she set foot in the library and looked down through the aisle to the cold hard doors leading away to the restricted section, she thought about the story.

Hermione had seemed to figure out the secrets of this place on the first day, and she wove in and out of the shelves carrying an escalating mountain of books like a fish in the water. The rows all looked the same to Harriet, and she had relied on Hermione’s books to get a hang on her classes.

But Hermione wasn’t here now. She wouldn’t be back for another week, and clad in her invisibility cloak and standing at the closed door of the restricted section, Harriet was on her own now in her search for Nicolas Flamel. All was silent in the dead of night.

In truth, she had forgotten all about Nicolas Flamel until this morning. After being defeated by Ron at wizard chess countless times, getting caught up in snowball fights with Fred and George, going down to see Hagrid and petting Fang, gazing out at the frozen lake with the snow-covered forest at its edge, talking to Hedwig and brushing her feathers, Harriet admitted she had run out of things to do before her brain reminded her of her promise to Hermione that she would research Nicholas Flamel while she was gone. Out of self-defense Harriet had at least done something; she had walked up to Madam Pince and asked her if she had any books on Nicolas Flamel (because that’s what librarians are supposed to do right?), but Madam Pince eyed Harriet so suspiciously with those piercing grayish eyes that she had mumbled a hasty “never mind” and retreated. She then spent a better half of a day making the best as she could from the common shelves, but nothing turned up. The restricted section lingered at the edge of her vision, but despite the library being almost completely empty due to the holidays, it also meant that Madam Pince kept a much tighter eye on everyone and Harriet couldn't even risk going close to the locked door.

She ate dinner alone that evening, too tired from her research to go back up to the Gryffindor tower to meet Ron. It seems that during holidays students didn’t remain at their own tables; she could see Angelina talking to another girl with dark hair she didn’t recognize at the Ravenclaw table. Catching Harriet’s gaze, she waved merrily at Harriet while her companion flashed her a shy grin. Harriet waved back. She’s never had a sister, and Dudley despite being a few months older was a terrible example of an older sibling, but Angelina had been what she imagined a big sis to be like. Oliver was too crazy about Quidditch sometimes, pushing the teammates so hard that even Harriet had winced and rubbed her bruised muscles, but Angelina made it up with her bear hugs and hearty claps on the back.

“How’s the elbow doing?” Harriet called. Without the usual population of students and the racket that came along with it, the Grand Hall was eerily quiet enough for Harriet’s voice to travel across the space in a normal volume.

“All fine! “ Angelina slapped her elbow stoutly to prove her point. “Better wish Oliver hasn’t come up with more insane training ideas! ”

They both made a grimace at that. Oliver hadn’t stayed back for the holidays, otherwise Harriet was sure he would have found some way to make Harriet practice all by herself.

“Wanna join us, Harriet?” Angelina asked.

Harriet shook her head since she was almost done with eating, a slight headache spoiling her mood of conversation. She shot a glance at the teacher’s table. Only Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout sat there, apparently engrossed in some amicable conversation. It seemed that the teachers had their holidays too, because she hadn’t seen any other teachers in the castle since the holidays started. Except for Snape. She had seen him just once when she was wandering around the castle some days ago, and she had expected him to tell her off or abduct some points for a minute reason, but he had swept past her with those billowing black robes flapping behind him without even slowing down or looking at her. It was the old ignorance from potions class all back again, but she could live with that. She still couldn’t believe that he had told off Malfoy like that—in such cold tones too—was this really the slimy old unfair bat everyone had been telling her about since the first day?

Malfoy seemed to share her incredulity because his face looked like he just swallowed a fly, the normally pale skin flushed in a thousand shades of humiliating red before he too turned and followed in Snape’s tracks. Harriet wished she had a camera to capture his expression.

After that encounter, she hadn’t seen Snape again, not even during meal times. Apparently this man didn’t eat, which did not come as a surprise as she could see that even with his voluminous robes he wasn’t a stout person, and his thin sallow face was all too well an indication. If plants fed on sunlight, Snape probably could feed on darkness. Heaven knows there is enough of that down there in the damp dungeons.

Swallowing the last bit of her pumpkin pie, Harriet scooted off the chair and climbed back to Gryffindor tower. Ron wasn’t in the common room, and she went back to her dorm and crashed on her bed, fast asleep within seconds.

She couldn’t tell for how many hours she had slept when she jerked awake from another nightmare, but the night had turned from a dusty pink to pitch black from her window. She had fallen asleep in her daytime clothes, and she had started pulling the socks from her feet and throwing them in the trunk when she saw a glimmer of silver. Harriet had stuffed the invisibility cloak in the bottom of her trunk after her unexpected encounter with the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but these days her sense of caution had been gradually worn away by the little voices piping up in her head—

_Professor Dumbledore had given you this cloak Harriet, so surely he would expect you to use it—_

_And he didn’t exactly punish you for night-exploring did he? So he’s not mad at all—_

It didn’t help that she had been plagued by those now becoming increasingly familiar nightmares of her parents disappearing in a flash of green light, with the high inhumane voice laughing in the background that night as well. She could never go back to sleep after these nightmares anyways.

“Might as well just go,” She muttered to herself, pulling out the cloak with a resigned air.

Half an hour later, under the cover of the cloak she was standing at the door of the restricted section of the library, holding a lantern she nicked hanging from a wall.

“Alohomora,” she whispered, pulling out her wand and poking the thick iron chain wound around the door lock. She had insisted that Hermione teach her the spell after she saw her use it on the door on the third floor.

The chain slithered and dropped on the ground like a snake, creating harsh rippling sounds that rebounded infinitely into the night. Harriet hadn’t really expected the simple spell to work, and goosebumps shot up her arm at the unpleasant noise. And then the door was open.

Looking behind her one last time to make sure no one was alerted by the sound, Harriet pushed open the door and stepped into the restricted section for the first time.

The air chilled to the point it almost hurt to breathe, the quivering light bringing the most horrendous imaginations to life. The lantern held in Harriet’s hand hardly lit enough of her path to allow her to see beyond an arm’s reach, and her cloak of Invisibility did not block the harsh bites of cold, so she took it off and stuffed it into her pocket because the dragging fabric was really interfering with the lantern as well. From behind the grubby glass panels of the lantern the flame may look warm, but its heat did not reach Harriet’s skin.

“Nicolas Flamel….Nicholas Flamel…” she muttered, turning left and right and holding high the lantern to look at the yellowed, fading tags stuck on each row.

“And why, Miss Potter, are you looking for Nicholas Flamel?” On her right, a cold and terribly familiar voice rang out in the empty silence of the library.

Harriet jumped so high she dropped the lantern as she landed. The glass windows of the lantern shattered against the cobblestone ground, and the flames sparked and died out, plunging the room into a moment of darkness before a ghostly blue light from a wand relit the space.

Severus Snape was standing in front of the row to her right, the edges of his figure practically melting away into the night with the black robes he always wore. An open book was still held in his left hand, and it was apparent that he had been reading by weak wand light before the untimely arrival of Harriet. A bit blinded by her own lantern and too focused behind her in expectation that someone would come, Harriet had not paid sufficient attention to what was really in front of her.

Dread pushes against her like an invisible gale, attempting to reverse her steps back into bed. Dread has her stomach locked up tight, nothing getting in or out. Dread sets her face like rigor mortis, teeth locked up so tight together no words could escape. But unless there was a time machine to turn back time and drag the sun back into the sky, Harriet felt her fate was sealed.

Receiving no answer, Snape stepped forward. Harriet instinctively took a step back, and crunched on the broken glass from the lantern in her sock-clad foot.

The pain broke the rigid state. “Oh,” She sucked in a breath.

_This really can’t get any worse—_ she thought furiously in her head.

She could feel his glowering gaze shifting for a brief moment to her foot, presumably taking in the condition, before it returned to her face.

He pointed his wand at the floor. “Mundus.” There was a faint clinkle as the shards disappeared.

“Is there glass in your foot?” There was almost a hint of exasperation in Snape’s tone.

“I’m not sure…I think I’m fine.” Looking down at her old grey socks, Harriet said weakly. She had excellent pain tolerance even though there probably is more than one cut on her right foot now, but she didn’t feel like sharing that with Snape.

“Is your minuscule brain shocked to the point of incapable of coming up with a coherent answer?” Snape snarled. “I want an explanation, and you’d better give me a good one. My office. Now.”

This is so much worse than getting caught by Dumbledore, and Harriet slapped herself internally for her stupidness, trying hard not to show it on her face. She desperately wished that the floor could open up and swallow her right now, because Snape looked like he could devour her.

“Can you walk?”

She nodded automatically.

“Follow.” He pushed past her, holding the door open as she slowly shuffled past him, then locking the door with a complicated motion of his wand. It only threw her into deeper mortification as she realized that the chain must have only been lightly resting on the door as she came in, already open, because there was no way an Alohomora could undo that lock.

Harriet lagged behind Snape, the thick silence doing nothing to distract her from the pain in her foot. She gritted her teeth and savagely walked on. She would not give him another reason to push her further into destruction than she is now. She could almost imagine the Gryffindor hourglass tomorrow completely empty, and people gaping at it when they came down for breakfast. Then they would realize it’s her, and fingers will be pointed and the whispers will start again. She’d never live it down.

Snape stopped abruptly. Harriet almost fell into his robes but steadied herself at the last second.

“You are limping.” He said emotionlessly.

Harriet was just glad that they had stopped. She had hobbled and hopped ungraciously in all ways possible to avoid pressing on her right heel, but it was getting past the limit.

“Gimme a sec.” She panted.

Snape strangely didn't comment on her uncouthness, and stood there in silence as Harriet placed her hand and leaned against the stone wall, shifting the weight away from her injured foot.

When she felt the pain ebbing back to a level she can control, she looked up at Snape. “I’m good.” Harriet said.

“Take my arm.” Snape said.

Harriet was suddenly reminded of a dusky dawn many many days ago, when a scary stranger had showed up out of the blue and set her life into a whirlwind. The same scary stranger was now offering her his arm.

“Not everyone’s time is as worthless as your’s, Miss Potter. Do be considerate and save your professor the trouble of waiting for you to limp your way down this corridor in agonizing slowness?”

Harriet gulped and felt her body infused with the courage of a soldier who knows he’s about to die and decided to stop caring about anything. She slammed her hand down on Snape’s arm with a little too much viciousness than she had intended, and she could swear she heard Snape breathe through his nose deeply, probably out of exasperation.

They started walking again, faster this time as Harriet used Snape’s arm as support.

It felt like an eternity before they reached their destination. Snape’s office was behind the potions classroom, connected by a narrow door that Harriet had never seen open before. It was furnished in the same style as the classroom, perhaps even more shabbily so, with only a table and two chairs and nothing on the wall shelves. She couldn’t even see any stationary on the desktop except for a candle. Even the window was small, and Harriet only realized it was a window because the texture was different from that of the wall, the sky still being pitch black outside. The place looked old and abandoned, and she assumed that Snape probably didn’t host office hours. Doesn’t seem like the kind of man who does, anyway.

“Sit,” Snape curtly said, gesturing at the chair opposite the table as he swirled his robes aside and planted himself in the other chair, lighting the lone candle with a wave of his hand. He then flicked his wand — for a split second Harriet thought he was going to serve tea or something—but two seconds later, a small vial and some bandages flew through the air and landed on the table.

“Take off your sock and apply the medicine.”

Harriet numbly pulls off the sad old sock that had belonged to Dudley; she only kept them because she liked their length. They almost came all the way to her knee, and she didn’t have to wear thick pants for warmth. She hated tight clothes that constricted her movement.

The situation was rather awkward; Harriet could already picture Ron’s expression when she tells him that she got caught by Snape in the middle of the night in the restricted section of the library and then had to sit in his office applying medicine to herself because she stepped on glass. If she kept her head down and focused on uncorking the glass vial, she could almost ignore the presence of Snape. The dark green mixture with a minty smell was familiar, and she recognized Dittany. There were no glass stuck in her wound— _lucky for once_ Harriet thought—and the tingling sensation of flesh healing almost matched the prickly feeling she felt on the nape of her neck as Snape watched her from his chair.

The second she finished applying the bandages flew off the table and wrapped them around her foot; Snape must have been paying close attention to her progress. She hastily lowered her foot and sandwiched her hands between her legs, hoping her look of guilt and regret was genuine enough.

“Now, Explain,” Snape said softly.

Harriet learned that this man has two significant moods; either he was spitting in fury or his voice was the finest of silks, but neither was a mood you wanted to mess with.

She had rehearsed her story in her head on the way here. “Err, I was trying to catch up on my potions homework because the holidays are almost over, sir.” She swallowed and continued. Snape’s expression did not change. “I couldn’t sleep because I had this really terrible nightmare,” Harriet dropped her tone to what she imagined was a doleful impression, “and I really needed some fresh air and obviously I can’t go out the castle so…..” She gestured weakly.

“Does the windows of the blessed Gryffindor dormitories not open anymore? If so, I will gladly send a house elf for repair—Miss Potter, do you take me as a fool?” Snape’s tone went even softer at this, and Harriet could feel danger in the air. “I am not your beloved Head of House who pampers you to the point of blindness. I heard you looking for Nicholas Flamel. Don’t. Lie. To. Me.” The last words came out in so much force Harriet felt them physically thrown in her face.

She didn’t know if she trusted Snape…if this was Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore sitting across from her Harriet would have spilled the beans without too much hesitation. But this was Snape. He had saved her — _twice_ she reminded herself—destroyed Malfoy in front of her, but also he was somehow involved in her broomstick accident. There was just too much unpredictability to this man, and Harriet couldn’t see past the surface of those black robes, black eyes, black hair. She was tittering on the edge of a cliff. But Snape seemed like he wouldn’t let her go either without at least wringing some part of the truth out of her.

_Be the Gryffindor you are, Harriet._

Harriet sat up straight, and looked into Snape’s eyes. They were the color of a washed up old barley field under the cold moon, glinting faintly.

She closed her eyes and jumped.

“Can I trust you?”

Snape seemed taken aback by her question. There was too much bluntness, too much straightforwardness, too much offered in that question; it was a jagged knife that pierced through the veils of pretense and all things false in nature. She knew, to him, she was just another night roaming ignorant first year who got unfortunately caught, but she wanted to take a bet. A bet that he would take her seriously when no one back where she grew up would, a bet that he would at least listen to her after she has shocked him with such an unconventional question.

“Trust is not child play, Miss Potter.” Snape finally said. But his tone told Harriet that he wasn’t joking. “Don’t open doors where you are not ready to open them.”

There was caution, and there was wariness in his voice. The old anger was still there, but it had been pushed aside by more dominant emotions. This was a side of Snape Harriet had never seen before…but his hesitation gave her courage to go on. If you ignore the stupid rabble who chases after you first chance, those whose stones really hurt the most are always those that come forth with a smile on their faces, a lesson she learned one week into playing with other kids. If there was anything Snape meant with his words, he was trying to dissuade her.

“If you want the truth, sir,” Harriet said quietly, “I think someone is out to get me. And it is all somehow connected to Nicholas Flamel and a stone.”

Snape stiffened in his seat for a second. But he immediately leaned forward, and there was a strange glint of satisfaction in his voice.

“How did you realize that, Miss Potter?”

“When my broom tried to buck me off hundreds of feet high up in the sky,” Harriet shrugged, “I’m not stupid.”—Snape’s eyebrows quirked ever so slightly at that— “I don’t think normal brooms do that.”

“No they don’t.”

_He knows_ , Harriet thought as a stone dropped into her stomach. _Someone really wants me dead._

Before Harriet could ask Snape for more details though, he cuts across her.

“And while knowing there is danger, you still chooses to wander around the castle alone at night.” It wasn’t a question, and Snape’s tone was back to being dangerously soft.

“Er yeah?” Harriet raked her hand through her messy hair. If Hermione was sitting here, she would most definitely start accusing the lack of security in the school—Harriet and Ron already had more than an earful of that after the troll incident. But Harriet was much more…accepting. She never was a lucky person, and even the supposedly awesome title of the Girl Who Lived seemed to bring her more trouble than help.

When Uncle Vernon threw something at her, when Aunt Petunia cursed at her, when Dudley and his gang chased her at the roof top, she had always laid flight and sought her chance to fight back. You can’t stop fighting. You accept reality, then you keep going. It’s as simple as that. However, it was much harder putting it into actual words and she wasn’t sure if Snape would understand.

—————————————————

“50 points from Gryffindor, for Miss Potter not caring about her own life and putting everyone else in trouble.” Severus hissed, struggling to keep his temper under control. The big grimace on Miss Potter’s face eased his anger slightly. Tonight has been a strange night; the questions that Miss Potter asked struck at angles he was not anticipating from an 12-year-old…he had been expecting tears, silent stubbornness, or maybe even enragement at being questioned as haughty James Potter would most certainly have done…but not the bland honesty the girl had given him. Initially he had even been slightly impressed by how much she has found out…but now he didn’t know what to make of it; the vast variety of emotions he had felt in the past hour had been foreign to him for many years and now he was slipping back to the safe waters of his familiar angry self.

If this was Dumbledore’s notion of keeping an eye on the girl, then he truly will be finding himself in some deep shite this morning because there is nothing stopping Severus from kicking his office door after he finishes this conversation with Miss Potter. Speaking of which, Miss Potter also had not revealed why she would know about Nicholas Flamel—he only started researching the topic in hopes of finding something he could use against the Dark Lord—but how would she know? Who told her?

“Who told you about Nicholas Flamel?”

The girl shut her mouth loudly with a snap and crossed her arms in front of herself. There was the silent stubbornness he had been expecting; quite a number of his own students had the same trait too. When they had information they didn’t want to share but wasn’t confidant enough about their lying abilities, this silence would come on. Sometimes he wondered if the Sorting Hat had made a mistake by placing Harriet Potter in Gryffindor…the girl certainly seems Slytherin at times.

Sometimes it was enough to pressure the student with the knowledge that they aren’t alone on the secret, and they’d be too scared to further commit the atrocious acts they’ve been up to. But this was a special case.

_Two can play at this game and when you’re against a twelve year old…_

“We’ve got all night, oh wait, all the rest of vacation to wait.” His lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. “You’re not leaving my office until you tell me everything about Nicholas Flamel and what you know about him.”

He could see his words pushing the girl from being scared to being irritated…good…short-tempered people have quick mouths.

“You’re the professor, aren’t you supposed to know more than me?” The girl retorted.

“Another 10 points from Gryffindor, for Miss Potter’s cheek.” The taunt hadn’t even irritated him, and he absolutely loved bullying people into submission until they realized his absolute power. The girl was definitely seething now, and she closed her eyes, breathing only through her nose.

When she opened them again, he was surprised to see the storm of whirling green chill down considerably.

“I heard some professors talking about me in the staff room when the name came up…and I just got interested. Nobody told me.” She said with defiance.

That was possible. Dumbledore never put his eggs in one basket…he would not be surprised if the headmaster had alerted other teachers to the possible connection to the Dark Lord. At least they would be keeping an eye on the girl.

“I don’t know anything else…” The girl continued. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be in the library at midnight trying to look him up, would I?”

A bit of the insolence is coming back, but Severus decides to let it slide. Once she’s established the fact that she doesn’t really know what’s going on at all, she’s in no real danger and he just has Quirrell to worry about. The slime ball had vanished since the beginning of Christmas however, and he wasn’t able to track his movements.

The girl clearly took his silence as a green light though, because then she asked, “So who is he? And how is he connected to the person who tried to kill me?”

This is why he hated dealing with youngsters. He could never understand why Dumbledore had so much patience for them; they were not properly socially educated and the minute you treat them with the smallest kindness they crawl all over you, demanding answers that they should not know. Well, if he was so good at dealing with children…

“And you expect your Potions Professor to have all the answers to that? Go ask the Headmaster if you simply cannot bear to live without answers, I’m sure he’d have all the answers.” Snape felt a little devil inside him cackle with mirth. Let the old man deal with this handful. He didn’t care about the girl more than the fact that she is alive and safe.

The girl cocked her head and seemed to accept the information. Bless Salazar that she’s just a child with the assumed intelligence level.

“I saw you staring at my broom and saying something. Were you trying to protect me?” The girl asked again.

He stared at her. How on earth did she see, when she was nearly being tossed to her death on a broom? And wearing those wretched glasses at the same time too.

“Most certainly not. I was casting a spell to break your neck because you can’t seem to stop your insufferable questions.” He snarled. He now wished he hadn’t saved her. Then they wouldn’t be having this talk right now and it would make everything so much easier.

“Now. Go back your dormitory. If you don’t, I will know.” He felt his temples throbbing, and took satisfaction by wiping the tiny bit of relief from the girl’s face by adding, “And another 50 points off Gryffindor for illegal nighttime activities.” She was probably hoping that he had forgotten about it; obviously no.

The girl scampered out the door.

He looked out of the window; the night had already faded to a grayish-yellow. Taking a deep breath, Severus collected his thoughts before heading on his way to kick down Dumbledore’s door. Then he remembered Miss Potter’s first question, and suddenly the first rays of the sun felt a little warmer as they touched upon his old dusty desk.

Dumbledore was just coming out of his bedroom behind his office when Snape barged in; a pink nightcap with a ridiculous bell bobbled on top was still resting lopsided on his head.

“So early in the morning, my boy? What’s so urgent that you could not wait for an old man to get dressed?” Dumbledore gathered the folds of his robe and snuggled into his grand armchair, gesturing Severus to do the same. Severus remained standing.

“Do you know Miss Potter has found out about Nicolas Flamel and the stone as well?” He threw the question at the old man’s face like a sharp dagger. “Is this your idea of protection? Letting her run wild in the castle while her life is threatened? She is a freaking child—has the broom incident not give you enough warning? Yesterday evening, or this early morning, whatever you want to call it, I caught her in the restricted section—” He paused at the unchanging expression on Dumbledore’s face. He hadn’t even flinched once under Severus’s onslaught.

“You knew.” Icy cold dread flushed into his heart. “You wanted her to find out. That’s—that’s why you gave her the invisibility cloak.”

“Ahh, I see you’ve been doing some spying of your own, Severus. Why should I worry if you have such a close eye on our Harriet?”—Severus did shudder at those words— “It’s not like Quirrell is in the castle right now, and if I presume correctly he has traveled to London to conduct some research about the resurrection of Voldemort.”

Severus said nothing. He was fine with Dumbledore playing everyone into his plans and he trusted the old wizard with all his heart, but to involve a child was an idea he loathed. He thought of Draco. And there’s another child being pushed into something he doesn’t understand yet…

Albus took down his glasses and carefully wiped them on the hem of his matching pink robe. When he put them back on, it’s as if a tension had lifted but left him with soft sorrow instead of relief.

“Harriet could never be a normal child, Severus. You know that. It’s within our duty to ensure the best of her happiness as we can, but she can never be truly normal.”

Severus thought of the girl’s state when he first saw her—a half-wild, ready to bolt, more animal than human light in her emerald eyes—and he felt an ugly beast in his chest raise its head.

_Not now, not while you’re talking to Albus Dumbledore._

He sat down, pressing his nails into his palm, hard.

“I would inform you that I have sent her guardians a **letter** explaining the situation,” Dumbledore’s voice hardened. “They would treat Harriet with the respect she deserves.” The headmaster then sighed and the harshness seemed to seep out of him with the sigh. Severus silently released his grip on his robes as well. It’s good to know that those twits have received some form of punishment, though absolutely not enough compared to what he had imagined…

“How much further does she have to go? Albus.” Severus rarely called the headmaster by his first name; it implied a level of intimacy he did not expect to achieve with many in this life. “Tell me.”

“The road ahead is long and unclear; but Harriet will have to play the key figure in this. It will provide her with invaluable help in the future.”

“Promise me, Dumbledore, promise me that you have it under control.” Severus tried his best to keep his voice steady; Dumbledore clearly didn’t want to tell him more, as is the usual situation, but he needed to know.

“I promise.” Dumbledore stared into his eyes as if challenging Severus to peer through his mind, but there was no way Severus would do that. He read sincerity in the old man’s eyes, and that has to be enough.

Severus released the pressure on his hand; they were numb when he tried to feel his fingers.

“How goes your little annual Christmas event at the Malfoys? Things are all in order I believe?” Dumbledore asked in a casual tone.

Lucius Malfoy escaped the punishment of the First Wizarding War by claiming he was under the Imperius Curse; but Severus knew how many bribes and connections he pulled behind the prying eyes of the public. Narcissa barely slept a wink those days, going from manor to manor, exchanging favors and promising benefits. By the end when everything was pretty much accounted for, Severus saw a Narcissa he never saw before, still haughty and beautiful but filled with deep tiredness when she thought no one was looking. That was the year Draco grew close to him; being taken under the wing of Dumbledore, Severus already had his matters taken care of, and the task of caring for a one-year-old baby whose parents were busy struggling to get out of Azkaban fell into his arms.

Only once did Lucius Malfoy asked him how he managed to secure the faith of the greatest white wizard alive, Albus Dumbledore. He displayed a perfect mocking smile, and told Lucius that age must have addled the old man’s brain that he was foolish enough to believe his loyalty, then took up his cup and sipped away at the tea. That was the Slytherin language for the end of discussion. Lucius never asked again.

Dumbledore knew of the Malfoys not so legal activities of course, and he always regarded the Malfoys with cool contempt. Severus knew that Dumbledore used him for keeping an eye on the Malfoys, but he didn't care much. That was a question he answered a long time ago, and his loyalties had never changed.

“Nothing much. A few new families from Southern England, but insignificant. It will take them time to gain ranks before they can become significantly involved with the Malfoys.” Severus said cooly. 

Dumbledore nodded. “One last thing, my boy.” Severus hated it when he used that tone; it meant there were favors that weren’t absolutely necessary but could not be turned down.

“What is it this time? Please don’t let it be as distasteful as last time when you made me do a toast.” Severus scowled and stood up.

“Oh no, not that.” Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes flashing a merry blue. “I think half the students were scared speechless after you were finished, such eloquence!” Then he became serious again. “No, this time I merely was hoping you would reference the next quidditch match? Seeing that you had done such a good attempt for the previous one?”

Severus shrugged. He would need to be present for the match anyway; it was another Slytherin vs Gryffindor. Sitting on a broom had no fundamental difference from sitting in the stand. Of course he would die before admitting that he had a secret liking to flying; James Potter took all the fun out of that.

“If there is nothing else of importance, I shall be leaving and not looking forward to our next meeting.”

“Till the next time, Severus.”

He nodded curtly and left. School was almost starting.


	8. Stinking Slytherin

“If you are to judge a man, you must know his secret thoughts, sorrows, and feelings; to know merely the outward events of a man’s life would only serve to make a chronological table — a fool’s notion of history.”

**―** **Honoré de Balzac**

Both Hermione and Ron weren’t pleased to hear about Harriet roaming the castle at night and getting caught by Snape.

“Blimey mate! I thought we were friends! Why would you go to the restricted section all alone and not bring me along?” Ron looked positively injured after Harriet finished recounting her late night story. He reached into the bag of candy Hermione had brought back and chomped the head off a chocolate frog.

“Ron! That’s hardly the point!” Hermione looked as if she didn’t know to be more angry with Harriet or Ron after his comment, so she crossed her arms and sat back in the couch, glowering at both of them. “One Christmas vacation! What if something bad happened to you? And you got us into so much trouble—the points—”

Harriet hurriedly clapped a hand over Hermione’s mouth. They were in the Gryffindor common room and quite a few people were scattered around.

“Mione, I haven’t told anyone else—just don’t—” Harriet whispered anxiously. She felt wrong about not telling people she was the responsible culprit behind the sudden loss of the gleaming rubies in the Gryffindor hourglass, but when she heard two seven years shouting in front of the hourglass that they will murder whoever did this, her courage failed.

“Please at least tell me you found out who Nicholas Flamel is.” Hermione said exasperatedly. Her face chilled to the point of no return when Harriet weakly shook her head.

“But I think he could be from the wizarding world, because obviously Snape knew him,” Harriet added hurriedly.

“I still can’t believe you actually told the slime ball that you knew that someone is going to kill you though,” Ron shook his head. “You don’t tell murderers that you know they’re on to you.”

“Yeah well I am sitting here all intact, aren't I?” Harriet sighed. “Plus he demanded me to tell him why I knew about Nicolas Flamel, and I can’t just say I read him off a chocolate frog card can I?”

“Wait—”, Hermione held up a hand and both Ron and Harriet fell silent. She snatched the chocolate frog’s box out of Ron’s hand (“Oi!” Ron said indignantly) and flipped it around. It was another card of Albus Dumbledore, exactly the same as the first one Harriet had opened on the Hogwarts Express.

“Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel.” Hermione read aloud.

“Ohh—” Harriet started saying, but Hermione raised her hand again and cut her off.

“Stay here!” She said, and jumped up from the couch and rushed upstairs to their dormitory.

“Wow. I didn’t even notice that.” Ron looked at Harriet, a tinge of admiration in his voice.

“Yep.” Harriet smirked. “You gotta give it to Hermione.”

Hermione came rushing back down with an enormous book in her arms. She sat down and flipped it open to a certain page, then pushed it in front of Harriet and Ron with a look of“I told you so.”

“Nicholas Flamel,” She whispered dramatically, “is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s stone!”

Harriet leaned forward and squinted at the tiny line Hermione pointed at, and she could just make out a paragraph along with an inked drawing of what looked like a stone. She read:

_The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Sorcerer's Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal. There have been many reports of the Sorcerer's Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)._

“Isn’t this the book you’ve had on your night stand?” Harriet flipped to the cover of the book, sure that she had seen it lying around Hermione’s space quite some time ago.

Hermione looked fairly regretful. “Well yes, I borrowed it from the library for some light reading,” Ron made a choking sound in the background, both Harriet and Hermione ignored him, “but I didn’t take it back with me for Christmas because I wanted to focus on my textbooks! If I had taken it with me I would definitely have found out who Nicholas Flamel was a long time ago!”

“No no it’s absolutely fine, Mione,” Harriet touched Hermione on the arm. “You’re great enough as it is. So now we know the stone Hagrid was talking about was the Philosopher’s stone, created by Nicolas Flamel?”

Hermione smiled a little and nodded. Her face suddenly lit up again like it was illuminated by a little light bulb. “Remember the three-headed dog? It must have been guarding it!”

“That must be why Snape is after the stone! Gold and immortal life—who doesn’t want that?” Ron chimed in excitedly. “But Harriet…didn’t you tell Snape about the stone?” Ron sounded doubtful again, excitement draining out of his voice. “We gotta warn Headmaster Dumbledore about it!”

“Wait…Harriet what exactly did Professor Snape say again after he caught you in the library?” Hermione asked.

Harriet recounted the story again.

“That’s what I thought…he asked “why” didn’t he?” Hermione looked at Harriet. Harriet nodded.

“So that would mean he already knows about Nicholas Flamel, wouldn’t it? Because if he doesn’t know about Nicholas Flamel at all, he would have asked who or what it was.” Hermione said thoughtfully.

Harriet replayed the scenario again in her head. Snape didn't look surprised at all when she talked about Nicolas Flamel, and he even pretty much confirmed her knowledge with his unsurprised expression.

“Yeah I would agree. He already knows.” Harriet affirmed. “He also knew that someone was jinxing my broom during the last quidditch match, and when I asked him about it, he made this awful joke that he was trying to kill me because I asked him too many questions,” Harriet looked down at her palm, “but that would mean he wasn’t actually trying to do it.” She flipped her palm over.

“So what does this mean?” Ron asked incredulously. “The old bat’s on our side?”

“I agree with Harriet. Killers usually don’t make jokes, as bad as it may be, about killing in front of their victims.” Hermione said with a bit of difficulty, shooting Harriet a look of sympathy. “And if it’s really that bad, I’m sure Dumbledore would have already done something about it. I still can’t believe you just asked Snape like that though…”

“Well he already took off like 60 points by then,” Harriet snorted. “Figured it couldn’t get worse. What was he going to do? Jinx me in Hogwarts? Dumbledore will get his hide.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed together again after Harriet’s nonchalant comment regarding the points, but she didn’t say anything. Ron yawned loudly. “I can’t believe classes are starting tomorrow.” He said dejectedly. “Where did all the time go?”

“I am done.” Harriet sighed and leaned back against the couch. “I don’t even know how to look at Snape and Professor Dumbledore now, it’s awkward.”

“Well we have double potions tomorrow,” Hermione excitedly said. The subject of school starting again successfully diverged her from thinking about the point loss. “I’m really happy with the potions essay I wrote this time, and I can’t wait for school to start. Have any of you discussed the situations when dittany doesn’t work?”

Hermione’s passion for studying is something that Harriet will never truly understand. Sure, not failing classes was important, but reading chapters way ahead of schedule and writing 15 inch essays when only 12 are required is something that she would die before trying. Ron shared her opinion avidly, plain terror written on his face now after hearing Hermione’s words.

“Hermione…” Ron said in a pleading tone. “Can I look at your potions essay? I may have another 6 inches to write…” This received a look of “I knew this was coming” from Hermione, but she stood up anyways to fetch her homework from the trunk upstairs.

“I’ll come along,” Harriet said quickly and joined Hermione on the stairs. She wanted to show Hermione the cloak, but not in the common room where everyone could see it.

As they reached their dormitory, Harriet reached into her trunk where she kept the cloak. She had been scared that Snape would confiscate it if he had checked the contents of her pocket, but he didn’t. When she pulled out the cloak and demonstrated how her body disappeared under the cloak, Hermione’s eyes googled.

“Wow, that’s so cool…I wonder how did magic change the light refraction? Must be some absorbing particles…”

Harriet, of course, had no idea what Hermione was talking about. Her parents must have given her some really decent education, she thought, feeling that familiar little pang of ache in her heart.

Then Hermione looked serious and worried again, replacing the little spark of academic interest in her eyes.

“Harriet! You should not be using gifts from strangers, especially not when an attempt has been made on your life! You should tell Professor McGonagall about this! Seriously, we’ve had enough trouble for an entire year.”

“Relax, Hermione, before you continue your lecturing,” Harriet threw up her hands in defense. “Professor Dumbledore gave it to me. He didn’t sign the note that came with the cloak, but he admitted it later when I ran into him in the room with the mirror.”

It was awkward enough telling her friends that she had been caught by Snape, and telling Hermione that she had already been caught prior to this incident a couple of days ago but still did not stop her…would definitely send her best friend into a rage.

“Okay…”Hermione still sounded suspicious. “Can you show me the note? Also why would he want you to roam around at night?”

‘I don’t know, Hermione.” Harriet said with a bit of exasperation, her patience running out. “Maybe he’s just not as strict as he seems? Plus he doesn’t really look like the average headmaster.” The headmaster of St. Grogory’s Primary School was this bald sour man who always wore a three-piece suit and carried around a cane that he used to whack children with, of which Harriet was often a victim. Albus Dumbledore was entirely something quite different. Harriet pulled his note out from her notebook where she had saved it and passed it to Hermione.

“Yes this is definitely his handwriting,” After a bit of examination Hermione announced. “Professor Dumbledore has a really special way of writing, did you not see the long loopy handwriting he produced after the sorting ceremony?”

“Well—next time I receive a mystery note I’ll bring it to you first notice shall I?” Harriet jibed back good-naturedly, throwing herself into bed. She hadn’t showered yet but she was too tired to care; it’s been a long day and there was Quidditch practice tomorrow. Captain Oliver Wood is back to haunting her life. Not to mention she had helped haul Hermione’s truck all the way up the staircase after Hermione declined help from the house elves, some sort of magical creature in charge of Hogwart’s maintenance that Harriet had seen running around, and every muscle in her body was sore.

“I still think you should tell Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore about Professor Snape though, Harriet. His actions still sound pretty fishy to me.”

But Harriet didn’t reply. Head half-smushed in the pillow, she was already fast asleep. Hermione sighed and tucked the cloak back into Harriet’s trunk and went downstairs to deliver the essay to Ron.

—————————————————

“Draco.” Severus only called the boy so in private circumstances; it was common knowledge that he was favored by the Malfoy family, but he didn’t like people speculating just on what level is the relationship between him and the young Malfoy.

Draco definitely heard him, but chose not to look up. Instead the boy tucked his hands into the pockets of his robes and kicked at a small piece of cobble lying on the path as he walked half a step behind him. Severus had taken into habit of meeting every one of his students at the door when they came back on the holidays. There wasn’t much, so it didn’t take much effort.

“And people say Minerva is the mother hen of Hogwarts,” Filius had eyed Severus sharply when the latter came down the path to stand with the other in front of the main gates of Hogwarts. The cusp of winter could still be felt in the chilly winds, but the snow was already gently melting.

“If only Minerva extended that sympathy to Slytherin students,” Severus pushed back without mincing. He was well aware of the prejudice against his students—the rising of a certain dark lord did nothing to help the rumors—if he wasn’t there for them no one would be.

Filius looked flushed. That was the common response against Slytherins, Severus thought bitterly, a bunch of people with enough conscience to realize their bias but not enough balls to stop it. He folded his hands inside his robes and waited for the arrival of the first student.

Draco had showed up last, because Narcissa always liked keeping him as long as possible. His luggage had already been sent up with house elves, and he followed behind Severus silently when Severus beckoned him over with a slight motion of the head. The boy had honestly already surprised Severus by not speaking first; perhaps the chastising had hurt him more than Severus expected?

_Fine, if you won’t make the first move I shall. What’s the point in competing with a child anyways?_

“Draco.” Severus said again, this time in a harder voice.

Draco finally looked up, but he darted his gaze away after a split second’s contact. He huffed through his nose loudly.

The whole show on a low level rather amused Severus, and he suddenly had a small inclination to mess up the too-sleekly combed hair on Draco’s head. The pureblood’s sense of fashion can be very peculiar at times.

_Such a child._

“I don’t see what’s wrong with calling Granger that.” Draco sniffed again, sounding both pouty and posh at the same time. “She DOES have…muggle parents.” He pronounced the word with quite a bit of difficulty and spat it out instantly like it was something dirty.

Impressive. At least he’s already learned not to use it in front of me again, Severus thought. If he wasn’t the head of Slytherin house and if he could speak to his heart’s desire, he would have maybe sat the boy down and tried to educate him about some things…but he couldn’t. He had a reputation to uphold. Plus the boy was too young to understand, to understand that the issue isn’t with a word and sometimes a word can make you pay a price so dear you remain in debt for the rest of your life…

“Subtlety. Has your father never taught you that?” Severus knew Lucius was a weak spot in the boy’s life, and sure enough, Draco deflated like a pricked balloon. “We do NOT go around screaming words such as this in public occasions. I have no wish to see any Slytherin student to be deducted points on behalf of vulgarity.”

“But father says it all the time,” Draco protested weakly. “Why can’t I say it?”

“What Lucius does is Lucius’s business. Here at Hogwarts I am your Head of House and you are my student, and you will do as I say.” Severus smirked. Draco looked like he was going to say something like “my father will hear about this”—he’s pulled that often enough in the past—but he looked at Severus again and decided that it wouldn’t work.

The two continued up the winding path, one secretly satisfied with the response, another nursing his wounded ego.

Half and hour later, Severus watched Draco disappear down the winding corridors down to the Slytherin dorms, and felt a tiredness in his legs. He had never been a physically athletic man, and trudging up and down the mountain path all day had taken its toll. But he still had unfinished business. Quirrell was also returning to school today, and he hadn’t seen that sniveling mess anywhere yet. Perhaps he had arrived by Floo directly to his office, being a professor of Hogwarts, so there’s a good chance that Severus will be able to catch him at the dinner table. That man never missed a day of meals in his life, even though he always looked so fidgety, dropping spoons and forks all the time.

_Or it could be because I am so intimidating_ , Severus thought with dark mirth. He does feel SO bad for Quirrell that the poor man has to sit next to him every time. After all he had not spent an idle vacation —if that word existed in his dictionary at all—and had a very enjoyable time poking around the background of the man. He remembered Quirrell in school; the man entered school just when he was about to graduate…he was actually much less of a mess than he is now. There was that tiny spark of accidental intelligence, as well as a stupid sense of right and wrong. He even taught the Ravenclaw a few times.

_Professor Snape, how do you view the near-extinction of boomslangs due to people excessively hunting them for their skin? The skinny young man had awkwardly asked._

He had told Quirrell to shut up. It’s not like he was too into the mood of teaching those days either…he had never dreamed of having a job that needed to deal with people every single fucking day…and whilst the wound in him still gushed fresh blood, he didn’t know how he managed to make it through. But that was enough reminiscing. Quirrell was the main deal here.

Quirrell had never been one for potions; he opted out of the subject as soon as he could. He also wasn’t much of a talker, keeping his presence unnoticed and never spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. But Severus had heard other professors talking of the man’s great sense of justice peeping through the shell of silence for a few times. Then he too graduated, disappeared for a few years, then returned to Hogwarts’ doorsteps to teach Muggle studies. That was a subject Severus never cared much about, but he remembered bumping into the young man a few times during mealtimes and in corridors. He seemed…bitter, actually now that Severus thought about it. The sense of righteousness was gone, replaced by the kind of bitterness one gathers after years of being trodden upon and laughed at, the bitterness of a soul rotting in the dark. The world changed him.

Funny how he should come to serve under the Dark Lord, rather ironical, isn’t it?

But then life’s a great joke.

Then Quirrell had disappeared again for an entire year. That’s when his track went cold, and Severus couldn't dig up any more information. He trusted his ability of tracking people, which meant only one thing. Quirrell was intentionally obscuring his trail. Something must have happened in this fateful year to push the man into the Dark Lord’s arms…or whatever was left of him.

And then Dumbledore had taken the brat into his welcoming arms without a single qualm, offering up the coveted position of Defense Against the Dark Arts…

Severus hatefully crushed a patch of grass under his boot, grinding into it until there was nothing but a patch of wet mess on the cold hard ground. He had came into the front courtyard where only a few months ago Miss Potter had stood with her friends, silvery laughter tinkling into the grey sky above. Now, a female blackbird hops on the newly defrosted grass, her deep brown legs matching the soil below. She has feathers the colour of every tree, of every wisp of wood that promises life to come. There is something in the way she moves, a joy, as she relishes the season change. The air is cool, but she can feel the promise of warmth within.

Can he though?

He didn’t have an answer to that. The seasons had always changed and passed without leaving a mark on him; deep in his solitary island there is nothing that could touch him as he sits and broods in his own prison.

Severus walked the last steps leading up into the Great Hall, and he can already hear the clamor of hundreds of students fresh from their break. Quirrell had better be one of those voices, he thought as he forcefully pushed open the gates.

The man was. He was sitting in his usual seat, dressed in his old purple robes and looking awkward as a very friendly Pomona Sprout was trying to make conversation. Severus strode past the tables, silently relishing in the sudden wave of silence that descended over those that he passed, and artfully navigated his way to his own seat next to Quirrell. His gaze met with Dumbledore, who did not merrily wink at him like usual but instead held his gaze solemnly for a moment. It was all very apparent what Dumbledore was thinking, or rather, what both of them were thinking.

“Do tell me, Quirrell, how was your vacation?” Severus smiled mockingly, turning towards his victim.

The man was clearly caught by surprise. Severus isn’t the kind of man you’d chose to talk to over dinner—not in a million years—and he wouldn’t make conversation with you either.

“Er…er, very well. Very well.” Quirrell said, much flustered.

“I heard you’ve been doing some research on precious artifacts? You do look like you could really use the money,” Severus said with a voice dripping with false concern.

Quirrell’s face flushed white then red. The fork he was holding in his left hand started shaking violently.

“Severus!” Sprout, who had been listening in on this conversation, decided to butt in. “Stop antagonizing the poor boy. I’m sure he had a nice vacation.” The Head of the Hufflepuff house always exerted a motherly love that extended to the most impossible people on earth.

“Yes, I can’t wait for him to tell me all about it. He owes me a conversation I am very much looking forward to.” Severus smirked. Of course he wasn't planning on interrogating Quirrell in front of all of Hogwarts. It’s simply that he has always found it convenient to exert pressure on his targets at all times; keeps them scared and nervous and ready to be broken down at the moment he desires.

Quirrell gulped, hastily grabbed his goblet and swallowed some wine. Severus too took up his goblet and sipped at his water, allowing himself a tiny smile of satisfaction.

—————————————————

The melting snow did no good to the Quidditch tracks, and whenever one landed one would kick up a spurt of mud and water so great Harriet’s entire lower body was drenched half an hour into the practice. She groaned internally. Those were her last good pair of pants, and the laundry wouldn’t be washed until the next Monday, four days later. That would mean that she would have to wear the school skirts she bought at Madam Malkin’s at the beginning of the school year that she hadn’t worn once since. Aunt Petunia was never the kind of person who cared about whether or not Harriet had pretty clothes and always made her wear pants for convenience. Harriet liked pants as well. Skirts were so airy and bouncy; it gave her insecurities when wearing those.

Oliver’s attitude did no help to ease her sour mood; he was pushing the team as hard as ever. The match against Slytherin was coming up, and rumors had it that they have a new tough chaser whose excellent at knocking people off their brooms.

“Now Harriet listen up! The Hufflepuff seeker Hector Rivens does this thing when he sees the snitch—he jerks his head like a fish out of water—are you listening to me?!” Wood shouted from his broom.

As a matter of fact, Harriet wasn’t. She was too busy watching Fred conjure gusts of wind in trying to knock George off the broom—then they both started fake-falling off their brooms, each more dramatic than the other.

“Argh! Some one come help me! I’m going to fall and break my neck!” Fred pretended to hang on to his broom with only one hand, but then made a huge show of letting go and landed without a loud “splat” into the sloppy mud a few feet below. George giggled loudly and dangled himself upside down on his broom.

Harriet roared with laughter, but she stopped after seeing a vein pop in Oliver’s temple. There was literally little spirals of smoke coming off the captain’s head.

“Will you stop messing around!” he yelled. “That's exactly the sort of thing that'll lose us the match! Snape's refereeing this time, and he'll be looking for any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!”

George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.

“Snape's refereeing?” he spluttered through a mouthful of mud. “When's he ever refereed a Quidditch match? He's not going to be fair if we might overtake Slytherin.”

The rest of the team landed next to George to complain, too.

“It's not my fault,” said Oliver. “We've just got to make sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn't got an excuse to pick on us.”

  
Harriet felt her gut tie up in small sharp knots, and she felt goosebumps rise from her neck all the way down her back. Snape’s refereeing? Why would he? She instinctively looked back at the castle, almost expecting to see a haunting black billowy figure staring out of a window or something, but all she saw was a grey mass with jagged outlines. Taking her glasses off and wiping them on her mud-splattered robes, she used the moment to recollect her thoughts.

“What happened to Madam Hooch?” Angelica flew over to Oliver. “Why isn't she refereeing?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said mournfully, looking up at the sky. “There are very few instances that a Quidditch match was refereed by another person other than the Quidditch coach. At least that’s the tradition in Hogwarts. Of the six years of Quidditch I’ve played, the situation had only happened twice—once when a player received a death threat from an opposite team’s player, and once when the coach was ill and couldn't make it.”

“Hooch most certainly isn’t ill,” Angelina snapped. “I just saw her at breakfast today. I say we go ask her what is going on.”

Somewhere in the deepest corner of her heart, a tiny voice whispered—

_Maybe Snape’s trying to keep an eye on you._

But that would be so much trouble. And even despite Hermione’s reassurance, she couldn’t even say with confidence that Professor Dumbledore would come to her rescue…she was just a twelve-year-old girl and people had much more important priorities to do in their lives. Hermione had also told her to go to Professor McGonagall, and it’s not like Harriet disliked or didn't trust her Head of House…it’s just Professor McGonagall obviously had better things to do than listening to her complaint which probably isn’t true anyways. She had also thought about asking Wood if he could consider placing her in a more protective position in the team, but when she saw the hard way Wood delivered out his plans, she felt bad about asking him. No point in troubling any of these people. She survived the first time on her own, and she can do it again.

Harriet silently swung her leg back up her broom, running her thumb along the familiar texture of the wood. She felt down in the dumps, and didn’t even hang around to talk with her pals after the practice like they usually did, heading straight back to the common room after practice was done.

Ron was playing wizard chess with Hermione in the common room, which is one of the few things they could beat her at (another was flying). Harriet didn’t like it too much when Hermione lost, because it meant that she would be in a dour mood for the next few hours and in turn, this mood would be inflicted upon Harriet. But Ron seemed to be having a great time.

“Don't talk to me for a moment,” said Ron when Harriet sat down next to him, “I need to concen—" He caught sight of Harriet's face. “What's the matter with you? You look terrible.”

Hermione cast another frustrated glance at the chessboard before looking up at Harriet. It was apparent that she was losing badly, and most of her chess pieces were already chopped up into little pieces by Ron’s.

Harriet told them about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee for the upcoming match against the Hufflepuffs.

“Don't play,” said Hermione at once.

“Say you're ill,” said Ron.

“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested.

“Really break your leg,” said Ron.

“Jeez guys,” said Harriet. “I thought we already agreed that Snape isn’t the bad guy here?”

“Never gonna believe that in a thousand years,” Ron said, shaking his head. “The time you trust a Slytherin is the time you’re gonna end up getting your butt kicked. Maybe the bat didn’t jinx your broom, but he certainly doesn’t like you.”

Hermione also looked unconvinced. “You really shouldn’t play, Harriet. Even if Snape isn’t the one who jinxed your broom, there’s still someone out there who did. You shouldn’t risk your life for a mere game.”

“I can’t,” said Harriet. “There isn't a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can't play at all. Then we’d lose to Slytherin. This would be my one chance to make up for all the points I had lost.” People still haven't tied Harriet to the sudden loss of points during the holidays—the fact that barely any students stayed at school for Christmas helped—no eyes or mouths to spread rumors and stories. But the guilt in Harriet’s heart was still there…and she wanted to do something good for her house.

Ron looked torn between Hermione and Harriet, but his mournful expectant look to Harriet said it all.

“Hey I did make it through the first time, didn’t I?” Harriet joked, attempting to lighten the mood. None of her two friends looked relieved in the slightest.

“Well, there’s still quite a few days till the match; who knows? I could very well really break my leg walking down those really slippery steps from the Great Hall—I already slipped once today—” Harriet continued. The tenseness in the air was making her regret telling her friends now.

“Not funny, mate.” Ron said. Hermione nodded her head in agreement.

“Okay okay!” Harriet threw up her hands in self-defense. “Give me a couple of days to think this through. Can we do our transfiguration homework now? I still have an entire page to write.”

They had just settled down with their homework when Neville toppled into the common room. To say toppled would be putting it lightly; the poor boy’s legs were stuck together and Harriet had no idea how he managed to make it through the narrow portrait hole. Everyone fell over laughing, but Harriet ran to Neville’s side and helped him up while Hermione performed the counter course.

“Malfoy,” Neville said, still gasping for breath, “I met him outside the library. He said he'd been looking for someone to practice that on.” He shakily sat down next to Ron, and Harriet pulled out the last chocolate frog Hermione had brought back and shoved it into Neville’s hand.

“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urged Neville. “Report him!”

“I can’t,” mumbled Neville. “I don’t any more trouble.” Then he suddenly looked up. “Hermione! You have got to watch out for Malfoy, he said you’d be the next!”

Every single strand of Hermione’s hair seemed to puff up with indignation. “Oh he can certainly try! I’m not scared of him at all!” Hermione said angrily, shoving her wand back into her pocket.

“Oh yeah,” Ron said grimly. “If he messes with one of us, he will have to reckon with us all. Malfoy’s just used to walking all over people, and it’s time to show him that not all will take it lying down.”

“There's no need to tell me I'm not brave enough to be in Gryffindor, Malfoy's already done that,” Neville choked out.

“I didn’t mean that mate,” Ron hastily said. “And if he says that again, just punch him in the face and show him what’s real bravery.”

“Yeah, you’re worth twelve of Malfoy,” Harriet said. “The Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, and where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.”

Ron laughed. “Stinking Slytherin—even the name feels right saying it. Try throwing that in Malfoy’s face next time.” Neville smiled weakly.

Hermione shot a glance at the darkening sky and sat down, yanking Harriet back down with her. “Okay enough about Malfoy, back to transfiguration. Join us if you want, Neville.”

The remaining days before the Quidditch match flew past, and as Harriet sat in the Great Hall munching on some toast and feeling nauseous about the upcoming match an hour later, it felt like only yesterday that she had told her friends about the match. She was busy breaking her toast up into little pieces and pushing them around her plate when Hermione suddenly swooped in next to her.

“Where have you been all morning?” Harriet said. “I didn’t see you when I woke up.”

“Harriet, I’ve got good news—well, sort of—I went to Professor McGonagall and told her about Professor Snape and Malfoy.”

“You did WHAT?” Harriet almost fell off her seat, and she hastily steadied herself.

“I told Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said naturally, “I told her that I saw Professor Snape muttering under his breath and staring at your broom during your last Quidditch match, and I expressed my concern for this match because I said that even though I believe Professor Snape is a decent person, I am still worried about your personal safety.”

“And what did Professor McGonagall say?” Harriet took a large swig of pumpkin juice, feeling like she needed something to calm her thumping heart.

“Well, she told me that Professor Snape is definitely a good person, and that he must have been trying to protect you. Then she said that she would also be keeping an eye on you for this match, but she heard that Headmaster Dumbledore himself is coming to this match, so you should be very very safe.” Hermione stated briskly.

The big boulder that had been rolling around Harriet’s stomach all morning crumbled and disappeared. Professor Dumbledore was coming? Then she must be very very safe.

“Wow, that’s great! But isn’t it a little unnecessary for—I don’t know—half of Hogwarts watching out for me just for one match?” Harriet’s voice piped down a bit, and she was suddenly feeling very embarrassed about all of this.

“Nonsense! You are a student of Hogwarts, and you are a very important person,” Hermione frowned like she could not understand where this confidence issue of Harriet’s was coming from.

Harriet sighed. The latter part of Hermione’s sentence did not make her feel better, but she appreciated her friend doing this for her. “And what about Malfoy? What did you say about him?”

“Oh!” Hermione flushed a little red. “Well, I just said that he attacked a Gryffindor student. Professor McGonagall said she will look into it.”

“I don’t know how well that’s going to stop the stinking Slytherin, but you did your best, Mione.” Harriet replied, patting Hermione on the arm.

“Stop what stinking Slytherin again, Miss Potter?” A hard voice behind them made Harriet jump. She really did fall off her seat this time, and having her legs still stuck between the chair and the table, Harriet’s rump banged hard directly against the stone floor. Without even having time to acknowledge the burning pain in her rear end, she allowed her gaze to slowly travel up from Hermione’s frozen face to the dark, scowling face of Snape.

She scrambled up as fast as her dignity would allow, frustrated to find that even when standing, Snape’s height dominated over her. Hermione was still frozen. Harriet had to come up with an explanation, fast. “Uhh, no one in particular. We were simply commenting…on the tactics of the Slytherin Quidditch team.” Despite the past incidence she had witnessed, she’s not going to test just how much did Snape favor Malfoy.

“Ah. I see. The Slytherin. Quidditch. Team.” Snape drew the last words out agonizingly slow between his teeth. “How certainly glad they must be to see the so-called legendary seeker Miss Potter injuring herself critically before a match.”

“I’m fine,” Harriet said.

_What did he mean by that? Hermione, please come to the rescue now —_

“Professor Snape, we were just talking about how hard it is to defeat the Slytherin team, and I’m sorry for letting our emotions get the better of us.” Hermione jumped in like a knight in shining armor, and her voice was so genuinely regretful that if the situation hadn’t been so dire, Harriet might have burst out laughing.

“Yes we are,” Harriet added. Snape’s left brow raised ever so slightly, and his mouth flattened into a thin line. Before he could pronounce their final judgment though, Harriet grabbed Hermione’s hand and dragged her up. “Got a match in 20 minutes though! Good day, Professor!”

As she hurried away with Hermione in tow, she could feel Snape’s eyes boring into her back. She tried hard to walk normally and not show how agonizing her tailbone is.


End file.
